


Lifetimes

by heenimlee



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Feels, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 104,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heenimlee/pseuds/heenimlee
Summary: "What if I said I'd find you in lifetimes to come? What if I loved you in all my lifetimes past? Wouldn't that be lovely?""I think I'd say you're a god awful poet."





	1. One

 

Taeyong blinks sleepily, his eyes just about focusing on the television. The credits are rolling.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “It’s over?”

There’s a familiar laugh coming from above him. “Yeah,” Jaehyun says, his fingers carding through Taeyong’s hair. A rare display of affection.

Taeyong groans and rolls onto his back, stretches his stiff limbs out from the awkward position he was sleeping in, curled up like a cat, his head pillowed on Jaehyun’s thigh and his long legs tucked under his chin to fit on the small dorm couch.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, blinking up at Jaehyun. “I’ve no idea when I fell asleep.”

“That’s alright hyung, you must have been tired,” Jaehyun replies. “I mean you were snoring and drooling and everything.”

“Shit,” Taeyong says, his hand coming up to feel around his mouth for drool, but there’s nothing there. “I wasn’t drooling!” he says indignantly.

“Made you look.”

“Shut up.”

“No, but really, you were smiling in your sleep. Were you dreaming?”

Taeyong blinks. He was. He tries to cling to it, evasive images, and some feeling, soft and warm, something happy, sunny, the glint of an ocean in harsh sunlight. The smell of salt in cool, crisp air. The muffled sound of distant laughter drifting in on the sea breeze. And…

“…seagulls,” he says. “I was dreaming of seagulls.”

 

**100 th year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

_Silk robes in summer_ , he thinks, _are an abomination_.

Taeyong takes quick steps, strides too long for comfort, so he can keep up with his mother. His hair is tied too tight, the day is too hot, his robes too thick, and now there’s a headache throbbing behind his eyes. His mother is speaking.

“Remember your lessons,” she says. “Impress him.”

“Yes, mother,” he replies, shifting his focus from the sweat beading at his temple to his mother’s voice.

“He appreciates wit and intelligence. But you must not overstep your boundaries. Remember your place, Taeyong.”

“Yes, mother.”

“If you feel as though you’ve caused him displeasure...”

“Bow deeply and ask for forgiveness. And if my transgression is grave, fall to my knees. Stand only when he permits it, and say his majesty’s grace is immeasurable,” Taeyong recites.

“Good,” she replies, coming to a stop a few feet short of a screen door. She turns to him, her face a mask. Any other day, Taeyong would try to guess at the hint of emotion in her eyes when she regards him so closely, love, perhaps, something tender and maternal. And then, when her face breaks into a smile, he’d guess at the hardened edge to that smile. What is that, he’d wonder, ambition, perhaps?

Today, however, his eyes flit to the gold and coral in her hair, exquisite hairpins shaped like iris flowers, the few strands of silver tucked out of sight.

 _That’s new_ , he thinks distractedly. _I’ve never seen that before. That’s vanity, is it not? That’s the need to impress._

“Taeyong,” she says softly, and Taeyong’s gaze comes to rest on his mother’s mouth, the tremble of hesitation before she can find her next words. _Strange_ , he thinks again, _that’s new._

“Do not set foot in that room looking for a father.”

 

 

**1944, Seoul.**

The radio buzzes in the kitchen. Taeyong sits alone at their large dining table, fans himself with a few loose sheets of study material. The days are getting hotter, he thinks, absently noting the moisture beading beneath his starched white collar.

_Recent speculations are now confirmed…_

“Halmeoni,” he calls.

“Almost done,” her thick voice sounds from the kitchen.

He sighs. His stomach twists a little with hunger, and he tries to ignore it and focus on fanning, but it’s just too distracting.

“Oh, hell,” he grumbles, tossing the inefficient paper onto the dark chestnut gleam of the tabletop. He stands, the heavy chair grating a little on the tiled floor. He abandons his textbooks and heads off to the kitchen.

“Doryeonnim,” the old woman frets when he pushes the kitchen door open and peers in. “I’m so sorry it’s taking so long. Shall I serve you some warm milk, while you wait?”

_…having suffered considerable losses in the past year…_

“Yes, thank you,” he says, and his eyes settle on the young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, jumping out of a kitchen chair and bowing awkwardly.

“My grandson,” she says, noting the direction his gaze wandered, pushing the boy forward, urging him to introduce himself.

“Good evening, my name is Jaehyun,” the boy mumbles.

“Pleasure,” Taeyong says, but he doesn’t bother himself with further formalities. He's just too hungry to care. He drags out a chair for himself and settles down. The wood is rough here, far from that gleaming chestnut table he should be seated at, a little splintered at one corner. The hum of the radio is louder now. He watches the halmeoni pottering about the kitchen, clearing the table of a bowl of shelled peas and bundles of fresh greens. The boy’s presence is pushed to the fringes of his focus as he watches her set a cup of warm, frothy milk down in front of him, a pretty white, perhaps the palest pink.

“What’s your name?” Jaehyun asks, and Taeyong startles, having nearly forgotten about his existence. The old woman cringes, reaches over and delivers a short smack to the side of the boy’s head.

Taeyong doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. The surprise of being asked a question by a servant’s grandchild, coupled with the sound the woman’s hand made when it came in contact with the boy’s head, something flat and unattractive, like slapping dead fish onto a countertop, and then that puzzled grimace she was met with. Laughter slips abruptly from his throat, without permission.

“I’m sorry, Doryeonnim, he still has much to learn,” she says.

_…allied forces gaining momentum…_

“No, that’s alright. My name is Taeyong,” he says, biting back another smile. “Lee Taeyong. I’m sorry if I was being rude. What brings you here, Jaehyun?”

“Summer vacation,” he reports, somewhat sullen after being reprimanded so ruthlessly. “Appa’s gone to Japan, and Halmi says I can’t stay home by myself. I keep telling her I’m all grown up now but this old woman just doesn’t listen.”

“How old are you?” Taeyong asks, quite entertained.

“Twelve.”

“You’re right, that’s quite grown up,” he says, and his eyes meet Seo Eun halmeoni’s eyes over the kitchen table, equally amused by this conversation.

“I told you!” Jaehyun says, triumphant.

“That’s quite enough from you,” the woman grumbles, her familiar long wooden chopsticks picking two good pieces of pickled radish out of a jar and adding them to Taeyong’s dinner.

_…a call to all able Korean men…_

“All done,” she says.

Taeyong doesn’t move.

“I’ll take my dinner here,” he says.

He pretends like it’s because the kitchen window is open and a cool breeze is drifting in, but really, he doesn’t want to sit alone at that massive table, and really, he hasn’t laughed in this house in a very long time.

 

_…conscription has now begun._

 

 

**100 th year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Taeyong stands quietly in his chambers, patiently waiting for the palace eunuch to undo the heavy silk robes.

“What’s your name?” he asks, an effort to ease this strange, stiff atmosphere.

The eunuch freezes, steps back, bows low and says, “Choi Jin, your highness.”

“Choi Jin,” Taeyong repeats, somewhat disconcerted by how fidgety the young eunuch is. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he tells him.

The eunuch bows again and Taeyong sighs and lets his gaze drift over the foreign room. There’s a heavy weight of disillusionment turning over and over in his chest. Today was his first meeting with the king of Joseon himself. The Great King Seongjong, learned and scholarly, wise and just.

His father, who had spared him all of five minutes.

The father he had looked for despite his mother’s warning, and failed to find in those measly five minutes.

“Your highness,” Choi Jin says, bowing low again.

“Oh, you’re finished,” Taeyong says, realizing that he’s already in his bedclothes.

“Is there anything I can bring you, your highness? Chamomile tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, Choi Jin,” Taeyong says with a smile, and expects the young eunuch to bow halfway to the floor and go scurrying, but he can see him hesitating.

“You seem perturbed, your highness,” he stammers out.

Taeyong smiles. “I am not,” he says. “Perhaps a little homesick, nothing more.”

“You mean Gongju?” he says excitedly. “…your highness?”

Taeyong nods. “Have you been to Gongju?”

“Just about half a day’s ride from it,” he says. “My father used to take me there sometimes, to the marketplace when we needed supplies, and during the lantern festivals, too…”

Taeyong listens with an amused smile, happy to have someone to talk to, about the lantern festivals he misses dearly, about the sweets in the marketplace, _about the boy with dimples in his smile and mischief in his eyes_ , but Choi Jin quickly becomes conscious of just how much he’s talking, before a royal, no less. He bites the inside of his cheek and bows deeply again.

“I apologize, your highness,” he mumbles, and Taeyong can’t help but chuckle.

“You do not have to,” he says kindly. “And I hope you will not mind if I were to call for you again when I miss Gongju.”

“I would be honored, your highness,” he says, flustered, and Taeyong dismisses him out of pity for the poor lad’s nerves.

He smiles, kneeling before his small writing desk, grinding inkstone, dipping his brush once and raising it to the paper Choi Jin had prepared earlier. He holds his sleeve carefully out of the way, his wrist moving to leave familiar strokes in its wake.

 _Jaehyun_.

He hesitates.

I have met my brothers, he wants to write. And they are cold, they are distant, they sized me up the minute they met me and I cannot help but feel as though what they found in me was small, insignificant, unworthy of their attention. They do not trust me, he wants to write. I can see it in Gyeseong’s eyes, in Musan’s smile, I can see it in the fact that my eldest brother didn’t open his doors for me. Perhaps they see me as just another threat to their existence in this palace. Perhaps I am not worth their time.

Perhaps I am not worth my father’s time. The king, I mean. Wang Seongjong, the learned. Not quite my father.

He blinks and looks down at the paper. Ink has dripped off the brush and left two black blots just beneath that name.

_Jaehyun._

_The palace is beautiful_ , he writes.

_My brothers are very cultured. My father, his majesty, the king, is wise and graceful._

I miss you to death, he wants to write.

_I do not miss you at all._

**1944, Seoul.**

“What’s his deal?” Jaehyun asks, laying out bowls and chopsticks on the floor of their tiny living quarters, while his grandmother uncovers a tray full of leftover food from the Big House. That’s what he calls it now, the massive house Taeyong lives in, with sprawling grounds and the little outhouse that Jaehyun’s grandmother has been living in for years, that Jaehyun has been sharing with her for over a week now.

“Who do you mean?” she says.

“Doryeonnim,” Jaehyun supplies. The strangely quiet boy, with large, deep eyes and a narrow frame, thin, elegant, almost feminine. Strangely infuriating. “What’s with him? He’s strange.”

“He’s a good boy,” she says, building a small pile of grilled fish over his portion of rice. “He’s had a rough time.”

“Sure, he’s had a rough time,” he says, picking up his chopsticks and digging in. “That big house and ten different side dishes with every meal. Tough.”

“Watch your mouth,” the old woman says, and it irritates Jaehyun that she’s so eager to protect him.

“Be good to him. He’s a lonely sort. His father is never home,” she says. “He’s in Japan for work. Things have been a little unsteady for them since the war started.”

 _My father isn’t here, either_ , Jaehyun thinks. _I’m eating leftovers, now, in this pathetic room, in this new city, and my whole life has been picked up and shuttled from place to place and I just want to go back home. I just want appa to come back home._

“Where’s his mother?” he asks.

“She passed away, two years ago next month.”

Jaehyun swallows, and something sticks in his throat. Perhaps it’s a fish bone.

“Juinnim hasn’t been himself since. That can’t be easy for a young boy.”

No, it isn’t easy for a young boy.

 

**100 th year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Taeyong’s back hurts, his muscles stiff from the hours he’s spent poring over his books. The scholars have not been kind with the amount of study material they’ve given him, all because he showed some signs of intelligence while speaking to the king on his first day in the palace. Ten pages of a study in courtesy and manners, fifteen of a text on wartime administration, five from a report on the success of irrigation systems in Shinju and its potential expansion to surrounding territories. He’s just finishing his reading when a palace maid steps quietly into the room and bows.

“Letters, your highness,” she says timidly, and his heart flutters. It’s been almost two weeks since he sent his letter to Jaehyun, and he’s been waiting every day since for his response.

“Set them down here,” he says, barely acknowledging her presence, gesturing to the silver tray by his desk.

She does as she’s told, and Taeyong stares hard at the hanja on the page in front of him till he hears the screen door slide shut behind her. That’s when he hurriedly flips his book shut and reaches for the letters, reading the name on the silk covered envelope.

_Jung Jaehyun._

He reaches in, pulls out the neatly folded paper.

_Your highness,_

_We may never be as cultured, and we may never be as wise as your venerable family, but for now we must take comfort in our youth._

_I have sent you something to remind you of your youth, and to remind you that there are things you must forget._

_Your humble friend,_

_Jaehyun._

Taeyong smiles, reaching into the envelope and retrieving a small slingshot, Jaehyun’s favorite, the one he used to keep tucked into his robes for the sake of springing a sudden attack. The envelope is still heavy in his hand, so he reaches in again, to find two flat pellets to fit the slingshot, with minute hanja scrawled all over it.

 _Use with caution_ , it says, _for it dispels wisdom and culture._

He bursts into laughter.

 

**1944, Seoul.**

“Ask him.”

“I don’t want to ask him,” Jaehyun mumbles.

“Why not?”

“Halmi, It’s embarrassing!”

“What’s so embarrassing about asking a question?”

“What if he thinks I’m stupid?”

“You are stupid. Now knock on his door and ask him if he can help you.”

 

Jaehyun sighs. He raises a hand and knocks on Taeyong’s bedroom door reluctantly.

“Doryeonnim?” he calls.

“Come in,” says Taeyong’s muffled voice.

He opens the door a crack and peers in, still reluctant to set foot inside.

“Jaehyun, come in, what are you doing?” Taeyong says.

The boy opens the door wider, steps inside, opens his mouth to say something but the words get stuck in his throat when he looks around the large room with its bay windows and its big bed. A bed. And a heavy wooden desk with bronze fittings. And a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He blinks. Taeyong’s room is bigger than his whole house.

“Whoa,” he says stupidly, and he cringes internally.

Taeyong chuckles. “What did you need?” he asks.

“I needed help. With my schoolwork. Halmi said I could ask you…” he mumbles, feeling small all of a sudden. “…doryeonnim,” he adds.

“Don’t call me that,” Taeyong says. “Come here, show it to me.”

Jaehyun moves closer to the desk, where Taeyong is seated with a fat math textbook and a few sheets of paper spread out in front of him. He holds out his book.

Taeyong takes it from his hand, turns it over and looks at the cover. “Yes, we did this for literature class. What’s the problem?” he asks.

“Well…” Jaehyun says. He doesn’t want to admit that he hasn’t the slightest idea what the author is on about. He doesn’t want to sound ignorant, especially now that it’s beginning to sink in just how far Taeyong is from him, how far above. He feels small, and he will not be made to feel stupid, something defiant taking root in his chest. “It’s nothing. I’ll figure it out, Doryeonnim.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.”

“Well, what do I call you, then? Your highness?” Jaehyun snaps, reaching for the book, but Taeyong pulls it back out of his reach.

“Give it back!” Jaehyun whines, and he can hear how childish he sounds. He reaches for it again, but Taeyong is faster.

“Stop,” Taeyong says firmly. “Ask nicely.”

Jaehyun glowers at him. He doesn’t see a way out of this, because Taeyong is taller than him, and _so far above him_. He can’t even clop him over the head and run the way he used to with the bigger boys back home. “Can I _please_ have it back?” Jaehyun says.

“Hyung. Can I please have it back, hyung,” Taeyong corrects calmly.

“Hyung,” he mumbles, and it sounds strange. Taeyong hyung. He’s too far away, too far _above_. “Can I please have my book back?”

“Of course,” Taeyong says, and holds it out. Jaehyun reaches for it, feeling wretchedly childish.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help, Jaehyun?” Taeyong asks.

“I’m sure,” he says, and he takes the book back, turns around and stomps his way out.

He doesn’t know why he dislikes him so. He doesn’t understand why he’s so upset. He just walks away stubbornly, straight down the hallway, past wood paneled walls with framed black and white photographs of old men with grey beards, huge paintings that span half the space from floor to ceiling, and down creaky stairs. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs to take a breath, and he feels so small.

“Jaehyun,” his grandmother calls out to him.

He turns to her stiffly. “What did he say?” she asks.

“He’s busy.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. Maybe you can ask him later,” she says. “Now come here. Juinnim is to return from Japan tomorrow, and we have work to do.”

 

 

**100 th year of Joseon, Gongju.**

Jaehyun sets his brush down and sighs. This is perhaps when he misses his friend the most. When he finishes his writing and realizes that he can’t read it to Taeyong, that he won’t be fixed with that steady gaze while he listens intently, his head cocked to one side. His stupid laugh that sounds like hiccups, when Jaehyun writes something funny, like a little play poking fun at his father, or their tutor. No one else would dare to laugh at those two stern men, with their straight backs and their thin, black beards, not even behind closed doors and out of earshot.

He’s been quite miserable since Taeyong left, because no one else runs fast enough to rival him when they race through the wheat fields, and he misses having competition. He misses the hour or so Taeyong used to spend helping him memorize the teachings that Taeyong already learned two years ago, because now he has to do it all alone and that bores him halfway to death.

He misses aiming slingshots into trees and trying to drop ripe fruit from high branches, sneaking off to the marketplace to watch the namsadang perform with their colorful costumes and their raunchy humor, eating flower shaped cakes and being too full to eat dinner, getting a polite scolding from their caretaker, laughing about it on the way to bed.

He misses everything, because they’re inseparable. Since the time Taeyong and his mother came to Gongju nearly ten years ago. Since a four year old Taeyong found that he liked poking two year old Jaehyun’s dimples, they’ve been inseparable. Their caretaker would tell them, that she’d never seen handsomer brothers, never seen two boys who care for each other like they do.

All this and more is the reason Jaehyun laughed with happiness when Taeyong’s letter came. Why he pulled the paper from the silk with poorly contained excitement, only to find three short sentences, and then to find his excitement draining from his body.

He stared at it for a moment. Read it over again, and he was disappointed.

When his mother saw his fading smile, she took the letter from him and read it.

“Why does he sound so cold?” he asked her.

“He is writing to you because he cares for you, Jaehyun. And because he misses you. But you must understand that he’s writing to you, a prince of Joseon, and that means he cannot put his heart into his words. He can only hide his meaning where nobody but you can find it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“If he were happy in the palace, he’d say as much. But if he were unhappy there, and he wrote it in so many words in a letter to you, that would be disloyal to his family. To point a finger at the king’s faults, at the other princes’ shortcomings, is ungainly,” she explained. “He has many burdens, Jaehyun. And as a friend, you must seek to ease them.”

So he took the letter back from her, read it over and over till he saw through it.

Perhaps it was the two black drops of ink splattered just beneath his name. Like a testament to an uncertain hand, proof of Taeyong’s hesitation before he wrote his letter. Those careful words didn’t belong to the Taeyong hyungnim of Gongju’s wheat fields. Those were the words of His Highness, Prince Yi Taeyong of the Palace of Hanyang, the son of Wang Seongjeong, King of Joseon.

_My brothers are very cultured._

They make me feel small.

_The king is wise._

He is a king, not a father.

 _I do not miss you at all_ , it read, and Jaehyun chuckled, because it was all a lie.

So he wrote a reply. Similarly politically correct, the right honorifics to address a royal, not a word out of place, and hid meaning where he knew Taeyong would find it.

He hopes it worked.

And he waits for the next letter.

Because he misses his friend and the years they spent on their own adventures. He misses his laugh and that unsettling gaze, his complete and utter disregard for the royal blood in his veins when he told Jaehyun to call him hyungnim. Even that strange day, when he pressed a kiss to Taeyong’s cheek, ruddy from the cold, so pink and pretty, and Taeyong looked at him with wide eyes and a shocked laugh slipped from his lips.

He misses everything.

 

 

**1944, Seoul.**

Jaehyun is lying on the floor, looking at the comic strips in the Sunday special section of an old newspaper, when his grandmother comes barreling into the room. He sits up, puzzled, because it’s dinnertime in the Big House, and she should be there, especially now that Taeyong’s father is back.

He doesn’t have the time to ask questions, because she grabs him by the collar and pulls him to his feet.

“Boy,” she says, her voice low and frantic. “When I sent you to Juinnim’s study with those books, did you take anything?”

He’s too shocked to answer, and he just stares at her dumbly.

“Answer me, did you take anything?” she asks again. “Did you steal something from him?”

He pales. When he left Taeyong’s room that day. When his grandmother sent him into Taeyong’s father’s study. Put these books there, she said, alphabetically, by author’s name.

“Did you steal from Juinnim’s study?” she asks, shaking him hard. “Answer me, boy!”

There was a book there, a thick, black, hardbound dictionary. He could use it, he thought. He’d use it and read that damned book without Taeyong’s help, and he’d show him.

“Yes,” he stammers. “I did, I’m sorry, halmeoni, I didn’t mean to…”

“Why in the world…” she trails off, releases her grip on his collar.

“I was going to give it back!” he cries. “I didn’t steal it.”

“Where is it? Take it back this instant,” she says sternly. “Juinnim is furious!”

“Yes, halmeoni,” he says, his voice small, getting on his knees and frantically looking through his things till he finds the heavy black hardbound book. He barely gets a grip on it before his grandmother is grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him out the door.

He’s half walking, half being dragged up the dirt path leading from their small outhouse to the Big House, and his heart is hammering, his feet tripping over each other, his throat dry. The old woman opens the back door, leads him through the kitchen, through the back hallways, from the places he belongs to the places that teach him where he belongs.

His grandmother stops at a door, and only now that they’ve stopped walking, Jaehyun becomes aware of the yelling coming from behind it.

“Sir, I didn’t take it!”

That’s Taeyong’s voice.

“Where did you learn to lie like that?”

That voice is deep, loud, furious, Jaehyun thinks, terrified of the man who owns it.

His grandmother raises her hand to knock, and Jaehyun squirms in her grip, his heart slamming against his ribs, and she just tightens her grip and knocks anyway. The yelling doesn’t stop, so the woman calls out instead.

“Juinnim?” she says. “May I come in?”

The voices fall silent. Jaehyun hears footsteps thudding close, a lock rattling, and then the door swings open.

“What do you want?” the man barks at her. He’s tall, imposing, grey at the temples. Nothing like Taeyong. He notices Jaehyun’s presence, and the heavy black book tucked under his arm. The boy sees realization setting into his eyes.

“What the hell is this?” he says, voice low and menacing, wrenching the book from the boy’s grasp.

Jaehyun shrinks back, almost trembling.

“Juinnim,” she says. “Forgive us, please sir, he didn’t mean to…”

Jaehyun sees Taeyong through the open door, standing in the middle of the room where his father had left him, too afraid to move. He catches his eye, and sees the look of horror that passes over the older boy’s face before he opens his mouth and says “I gave it to him!”

Taeyong father turns around and stares at him. Jaehyun’s mouth opens and closes like some dumb animal and his grandmother’s grip on his wrist tightens till it hurts.

“Abeoji, I gave it to him. I… I was afraid you’d be angry, so I lied. I gave it to him, he didn’t steal it.”

“Juinnim, that’s not…”

“I’m sorry sir, abeoji, I didn’t mean to lie, but I gave it to him,” Taeyong presses on.

The man stalks closer, all the while Taeyong is speaking, he’s moving closer to him, and Jaehyun is struck dumb with fear, staring horrified at what’s happening before him. He can’t even blink when the man draws his hand back and strikes Taeyong across the face once, twice, thrice. He feels his grandmother tugging him by the wrist, but he’s rooted to the spot.

She pulls hard, and he stumbles, jolts to the realization that he’s being dragged down the hallway. He looks back over his shoulder, and he gasps when he sees that man, towering over Taeyong, lifting that heavy, black, hardbound book high. For a moment, they’re frozen there, framed in the doorway, Taeyong cowering, and his father’s arm drawn back, a movement stretched to its farthest limit like the drawing of a bowstring and he’s dragged around the corner just before he can see it being released.

He hears a dull thud, and he thinks maybe that’s what it sounds like, violence.


	2. Two

**1944, Seoul.**

“Wait here awhile,” his grandmother says, when they reach the kitchen. “In case he wants to talk to you.”

Jaehyun nods dumbly, still trembling, unable to get the image out of his head. He knows the weight of that book and it sinks like sludge in his gut.

“What were you thinking, Jaehyun?” she says, tired and scared.

He shakes his head. He wasn’t thinking. He didn’t think what would happen. He didn’t think that would happen to Taeyong over some book. _It’s just a book._

Somewhere, a door slams.

“God,” she breathes, heading back out into the hallway. “I’ll check on him and be right back.”

Jaehyun waits. A few short moments, till the guilt in his gut is making him sick, and he just starts to realize that if it weren’t for what Taeyong did, he’d be the one being beaten by that man. He inches down the hallway behind his grandmother, peers around the corner, and Taeyong is there, and his halmi is pressing her wrinkled hands to Taeyong’s face, bruised at the highest point of his cheekbone, bleeding from the lip, and she’s drawing him close, hugging him close.

“Doryeonnim,” she says, soothing and pleading and something only grandmothers have in their voices. “My boy, why did you do that? Why did you do that for us?”

He shakes his head, and Jaehyun feels his stomach lurch with guilt. He can see the older boy shaking like a leaf, staying wrapped in his halmi’s embrace.

“Halmeoni,” Taeyong says, and Jaehyun can hear him holding back a sob. “I wish my mother were here.”

“I know. I know, my boy, my dear, brave boy,” she says, and Taeyong crumbles, cries like a child in that old woman’s arms.

Jaehyun can feel his eyes stinging, his stomach twisting, and suddenly, Taeyong doesn’t feel so far above.

 

“I’ll take it up,” Jaehyun says, eyeing the tray with a cup of frothy, warm milk and a few cubes of ice in a handkerchief that his grandmother has set on the kitchen table.

She eyes him for a moment. “You should do that,” she says, finally, and nudges the tray towards him.

 

He balances the tray in one hand, reaches out and knocks on Taeyong’s door.

“Doryeonnim, it’s me,” he says.

“Come in.”

He turns the knob, pushes the door open and steps into Taeyong’s room. It’s dark, save for the lamp at the desk. He pushes in despite the darkness, his eyes adjusting. He can see Taeyong’s figure curled up in bed, and he walks over, sets the tray down on the nightstand.

“I brought milk and ice,” he says quietly, feeling like his voice would disturb Taeyong’s peace.

“Alright, just leave it there.”

He hesitates, and Taeyong knows he’s hesitating, because he’s sitting up slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean for that to happen to you. And thanks, for helping me.”

Taeyong doesn’t move, just sits there in the half dark, watching him, and Jaehyun can’t move either, fixed under his gaze. He can’t see Taeyong’s face quite clearly, but he can picture that steady gaze, those large, deep eyes.

“Why did you do it?” they say at the same time.

Taeyong chuckles. “You first,” he says.

Jaehyun swallows. He doesn’t want to tell him, but he supposes he owes him that much now.

“I thought you’d think I was stupid. So I just figured I’d use the dictionary instead of asking for your help,” he says. “I felt like you were just some rich kid and you’d look down on me, and I don’t want to be looked down on. I never meant to get you in trouble.”

Taeyong still has him pinned under his gaze.

“Okay, now you,” Jaehyun says. “Why did you lie to him?”

He shrugs.

“Because I knew he’d do that to you,” he says simply. Jaehyun waits, unsure of how to take that, unsure what to do with it.

“How bad is it?” he asks tentatively, and the older boy shrugs again.

“Can I see?” Jaehyun asks.

Taeyong doesn’t say no, so Jaehyun takes that as a yes, and he moves closer, till the shadows recede a little, and he can see his swollen cheek. He grimaces. His stomach twists with guilt, and he wants to say something, anything, that’ll make Taeyong laugh right now.

“Aww, hyung,” he says through his teeth. “You’re really ugly right now.”

Taeyong snorts. “Thanks, brat,” he says, and Jaehyun chuckles, and crouches by the bed. He reaches for the cup of milk, holds it out till Taeyong takes it from him. And then he reaches for the handkerchief, wet now with ice water, and holds it to Taeyong’s bruised face.

“Ow,” Taeyong says resignedly.

“Don’t be a baby, hyung.”

“I’ll kick your ass, brat.”

 

 

“Taeyong hyung,” he says softly, but the other shows no signs of moving.

He hasn’t moved since he fell asleep on Jaehyun’s shoulder halfway through the journey back from a Rookies performance, failing to fight his dipping eyelids and his stifled yawns. Mark stirs, raises his head off of Taeyong’s shoulder, where he had fallen asleep five minutes into the journey, sits up and stares out of the window sleepily. Jaehyun didn’t sleep, too comfortable with Taeyong’s weight against his side.

“Hyung, wake up,” he says again, a little louder. “We’re home.”

Taeyong groans and shifts, pushes his light brown hair out of his eyes, just as the van rolls to a halt in front of their dorm.

“Ow, my neck,” he says, grimacing, rubbing the soreness out of his muscles.

“Did you sleep well?” Jaehyun asks, gathering his things and sliding the door open.

“Like a baby,” he replies, still a little sleep-hazy. “I had entire dreams.”

Jaehyun chuckles.

“Seagulls, again. I don’t know what it is.”

“Seagulls?” Jaehyun asks, leaning against the side of the van, waiting for Taeyong. “You dream of loud, ugly birds, just flapping around? That’s the dream?”

Taeyong grins. “Not exactly. I don’t understand either,” he says. “But it feels like a good dream. Like I’m really happy.”

“I feel like there’s a really potent joke in there somewhere.”

“…shut up.”

“Don’t be cranky, hyung, I’m sure you’ll meet the gull of your dreams someday.”

“That was terrible.”

“Dream gull,” Jaehyun whisper-sings, a taller, paler, dimplier version of Shinee’s Jonghyun.

“Hey look, Jae, I just herniated.”

“What.”

“You know, from cringing so hard.”

 

 

**100 th year of Joseon, Gongju.**

Jaehyun twists his body. His hands are trembling with the thrill of his task. He sees a flash of brown out of the corner of one eye and ducks down quickly. The breath of air on the back of his neck is testament to how narrowly he avoided a heavy blow. He pulls his robes out of the way. They’ve been threatening to trip him up from the first stinging hit to his ribs, and he swings hard with his makeshift sword, a low, clean sweep. He’s taken aback, because that should have felled his opponent, but he just meets air. Before he knows it, there’s a weight on his back, and he’s pushed harshly to the ground.

A grating laugh rings out above him.

Jaehyun groans, trying his best not to taste the dirt his face is being pressed into. The man digging his foot into Jaehyun’s back, right between the shoulder blades, relents, releases him.

Jaehyun groans again, getting to his hands and knees, battling the ache in his muscles and stands.

“It was the damned robes,” he says sullenly, picking grass off his clothes. “I almost had you.”

The tall man before him laughs again, his eyes filled with mirth in a way Jaehyun thought was impossible when he first met him. What with his rough, calloused palms and a face that spoke of solemnness and dignity.

“A man attempting to kill you will not extend the courtesy of letting you change into comfortable clothes,” he says.

“I know that,” Jaehyun grumbles, massaging a bruised knee.

The man, Kim Jae, his teacher and personal guard to Jaehyun’s father, regards him carefully.

“Would you like to stop, now, my lord?” he says.

“No,” Jaehyun says defiantly.

“If I may ask,” the man ventures. “Why has the young lord been so committed to his lessons of late? You used to loathe sword training.”

Jaehyun frowns up at him. “I still do,” he says with a grimace. “But if I am to go to Hanyang, I must be able to protect myself.”

Kim Jae’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hanyang, my lord?” he asks. “I was not aware you would be leaving.”

“Not yet,” Jaehyun says. “But I will, soon. I will rise to Sunggyungwan.”

“You wish to become a scholar?”

Jaehyun nods. He’s growing up now, on the cusp of thirteen, and his father has begun to urge him to think of his place in the world. “If all goes well, then for the court,” he says. “In due time, of course.”

“You would to counsel the monarchs as a member of the Confucian scholars?”

“As a member of the court, I would become a source of strength and confidence,” he says. “For my family, and for my dearest friend living without me in the palace.”

The man regards him carefully again.

“Is it really yourself you wish to protect in Hanyang, my lord?” he asks.

Jaehyun smiles.

“You have a long way to go,” Kim Jae says, with a kind smile. “Before him, you are a poor swordsman.”

“And that is why we must not stop yet.”

 

Jaehyun sits by the stream. In his hands is a sheet of paper, the kind they use to blot ink, and on it are three characters written with a heavy, careless hand. Written when his mind wandered away from the lesson he was reading, written like a habit. And when he looked down at the thick black strokes, he flushed with embarrassment, and stuffed the paper quickly into his robes before his tutor could return and chide him.

_Yi Taeyong._

He sits still, hearing the quiet gush of water over mossy stone, letting himself look long and hard at the black strokes of his friend’s name. Only months ago, Taeyong sat there with him and told him he has questions that need answers. Why was he sent here? Why did he have to live in Gongju, so far from the palace, when he too is a Prince? Why must he live not knowing his father’s voice, why must he live outside His Majesty’s grace, and why is he less of a son than the other princes? _What have I done_ , he asked, _that he should forget about my very existence? What has mother done, that he should send her away like this?_

Jaehyun had no answers to give, just like every other time Taeyong sat there and asked him the same questions.

Days before that, they were sitting together by the stream, while Taeyong massaged Jaehyun’s bruised ego, told him calmly that he mustn’t pay too much attention to his father’s moods. That he probably hadn’t meant what he said, and he was just having a bad day. That he would personally steal the man’s shoes and drop them into the sludge in the stables if that would make Jaehyun happy, and the very idea had him cracking a smile, and then bursting into laughter.

He folds the paper. Half once, and the half again. He does it quickly, like a habit.

Six months ago, when Taeyong met Jaehyun’s cousin, a pretty young girl, daughter of the Minister of Justice. When they stood together and all the adults agreed that they looked lovely together, that they should think of marriage when they’re older, and the girl had blushed shyly, and Taeyong just laughed and thanked the minister for considering him worthy of his daughter.

Jaehyun left the house late in the evening, unhappy in a way he couldn’t understand, and sat there by the stream, shivering in the cold as the hours slipped by, until Taeyong came to find him. Is something wrong, he asked, sitting down by his side. And when Jaehyun didn’t reply, he told him he knew Jaehyun was hungry, and that he had stolen cakes from the pantry and he held them out to him, caramel colored and glossy against the dark silk they were packed in. In that moment, he looked so pretty, flushed pink because of the bite in the night air, and he was so kind.

Jaehyun didn’t understand what he was doing when he leaned in close and pressed his lips to Taeyong’s cheek.

It was only when he pulled away and saw his wide eyes staring back at him that he realized he had done something strange. Something bizarre, an aberration in the fabric of their friendship.

But Taeyong didn’t say a word. He just laughed, surprised, nothing more, and Jaehyun laughed too. They ate cakes and tossed pebbles into the stream till they were too cold to stay any longer, and Jaehyun went to bed that night, content.

This is their stream, their sanctuary.

He crouches low by the water’s edge, and he lets it down gently till it touches the water, balances it for just a moment, and then releases it. The little paper boat is taken by the current, and he watches it go, as far as he can.

_I’ll come to you, my dearest friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support, and I hope you're enjoying this :)  
> I'm probably going to jump forward another year or so with the next chapter, so you can expect Jaeyong to grow and mature and have more moments :B


	3. Three

**Present day, Seoul.**

“Hyung, are you alright?” Jaehyun says.

“I’m great,” Taeyong slurs, stumbling into Jaehyun’s arms. “I’m amazing. Do you know how amazing I feel right now?”

“Really, really amazing?” Jaehyun ventures, the sleep knocked right out of his skull by the weight of Taeyong’s body slumped against his, and the effort it’s taking to keep them both standing.

“Yeah!” the older boy says, making no effort whatsoever to balance himself. “Exactly. You’re amazing, Jaehyun, you just know everything.”

“Like the fact that you’re very drunk right now?”

“I’m not drunk,” Taeyong mumbles. “Who’s drunk? Not me.”

Jaehyun chuckles quietly. They had all gone out to dinner, to celebrate the confirmation of their debut. And after that, his poor minor ass was left behind when the older members decided they’d have to drink to their success. Two hours passed, and Jaehyun went to bed, more than a little sore that he wasn’t included because technically, he isn’t legal yet.

An hour of sleeping like the dead, and he was startled awake by an ungodly knocking on his bedroom door. Three seconds of confused blinking later, he realized it was Taeyong knocking and demanding that he open the door immediately. He groaned, rolled out of bed and shuffled over to let him in, and the moment the door swung open, Taeyong’s dead weight fell into his arms.

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong mumbles against his chest. “We’re going to be amazing. The whole world’s going to watch us and love us, you know that?”

Jaehyun smiles, walking Taeyong backward so he could drop his weight onto the bed, because his arms are trembling a little trying to keep him upright. The backs of Taeyong’s calves hit the edge, and Jaehyun tries to let him down gently, but Taeyong gives in to gravity and falls hard, bouncing a little on his mattress, giggling at his own clumsiness.

Jaehyun watches, somewhere between amused and exasperated, and he wants to ask if he should leave him there and take Taeyong’s bed for the night, or if his dead weight ass could walk itself back to his own room. But the words die on his tongue because Taeyong’s looking up at him, with these hazy eyes, with this dumb smile, and his mouth is forming words around his smile. Come here, sit down, I need to tell you something, and Jaehyun moves as if compelled.

“What’s up, hyung?” he asks, sitting down in the little space Taeyong has left unoccupied.

“I don’t know,” Taeyong says. “I just felt like I needed to tell you something.”

“Tell me what?”

Taeyong frowns. And then his mouth twists with concentration. And Jaehyun would laugh at him if his chest wasn’t brimming with anticipation. For what, he doesn’t know.

“I don’t know,” Taeyong says at last. “It was something good, though.”

“Something amazing?”

“Amaaazing,” Taeyong laughs, his eyelids drooping. “Don’t you feel amazing?”

“Nah,” Jaehyun says, smiling down at Taeyong. “Mostly just sleepy.”

“I just remembered what I wanted to say,” Taeyong murmurs.

“What is it?”

“I think,” Taeyong says, his eyes fluttering closed. “You’re the dream.”

Jaehyun is too stunned to say anything for a moment. You’re the dream – I’m the dream, I’m his dream?

“Hyung?” he says.

Taeyong is asleep.

He sits there and watches him for a moment. So ugly with his lips a little parted and his face pressed against Jaehyun’s pillow, the smell of alcohol clinging to his clothes where he probably clumsily spilled his drink. He sighs.

He leans over, grabs fistfuls of the comforter he’d thrown off in a hurry when Taeyong knocked. He pulls it over Taeyong, tucking it under his chin so the draught wouldn’t wake him. His hands linger of their own accord, as if daring him to let them do something. Anything at all.

He leans forward, his weight on one hand on the pillow by Taeyong’s head. The other lifts, steady and brave because his hyung is asleep now, and if he closes his eyes too, just for these few moments, there are no witnesses. He pushes Taeyong’s soft brown hair off his forehead, lets his fingertips trace a gentle path over his cheek, over his lips.

He catches himself before he falls any further.

“Goodnight hyung,” he whispers, and leaves the room.

There is nothing left behind, no evidence of that stolen moment but the hammering of his own heart.

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Taeyong returns from two hours of archery practice, his limbs weary. The master who taught him today was maddeningly particular about his stance and demanded perfection in a way he didn’t know to deliver. His swordsmanship far exceeds his skill as an archer, since Kim Jae, the man who had taught him, was a far superior swordsman than an archer. And that meant he was made to practice till the light faded and the master relented. Two hours of _again, your highness, you have missed your opponent, your highness, you are as good as dead, your highness,_ and now, he’s as good as dead.

“Choi Jin,” he says to the hallway at large, stretching and yawning. “Prepare the bath.”

The young eunuch come scurrying out of his chambers. “Your highness,” he says. “Your mother is here to see you.”

“My mother?” he asks with a frown. He doesn’t know why she’s here without prior notice. “Is something wrong?”

“She didn’t say,” he replies.

Taeyong sighs, turns to the tea room instead of proceeding down the hall to the bath.

“Prince Taeyong has arrived,” Choi Jin announces, sliding the screen door open. Taeyong steps in, and the door slides shut silently behind him.

His mother is seated on the floor at a low table in the centre of the room, the deep red silk of her robes pooled all around her on the dark floor. She looks younger in that dim lamplight, the jewels in her hair glittering when she turns in his direction.

“Mother,” he says, walking towards her. She smiles.

“Come, sit,” she says. “I have asked for tea.”

He takes his seat across from her. “I apologize for my appearance,” he says, when she looks at his sweaty face and his disordered hair. “But your visit was so sudden. Is something the matter?”

“The matter,” she says. “Is that you haven’t been to see me in three days.”

Taeyong smiles, relaxes, reaches for the sea green ceramic pot placed in the middle of the table, and pours warm, fragrant tea into his mother’s cup before filling his own. “I do apologize, mother, but the scholars and the masters have kept me busy.”

“A man must never be too busy to make time for his mother,” she states solemnly, picking up her cup with practiced elegance and bringing it to her lips.

“Then I am no man,” he says, chuckling and bowing low. “Forgive me, mother.”

She laughs, the only sound familiar and warm in this palace. “You are forgiven,” she says.

When he raises his head again, she looks at him long and hard. He lets her take her time to find what she wants to say, and he reaches for his own cup. He takes a sip, a few notes of jasmine on his tongue, waiting for her to break the silence.

“You look tired,” she says pensively. “The palace is not easy, is it?”

“You have not raised me to run from difficulty,” he says with a smile.

“The scholars are impressed with you,” she says, similarly pensive. “You outshine the other princes.”

“They are generous with their praise,” he mumbles, embarrassed by the sudden compliment.

“Do not be modest,” she says. “Lay claim to what is yours.”

He blinks at her for a moment, sets his cup down with a soft clink. “What do you mean, mother?” he asks.

She raises her head, something clearing from her eyes as if she were shaken out of a deep reverie. “The praise,” she says. “It is yours to claim, so do not shy away from it.”

Taeyong smiles again.

“You have been working so hard, my son,” she says. “And I know it must not be easy for you, leaving that easy life and your closest friend behind and living here, stifled and guarded. Do you not miss Gongju, sometimes?”

“I do, mother, every day I miss Gongju, and I miss my friend,” he says. “He promises with every letter that he will come to Seonggyungwan, but there is still another year before he is the right age.”

“Shall we go to him, then?” she says with a happy smile. “Let us visit our friends in Gongju. Shall we go? For a fortnight, perhaps?”

Taeyong stares at her, and Jaehyun’s face when they said goodbye flashes in his mind. Young and pale, with those dimples resolutely absent because he just refused to smile when Taeyong was leaving.

“Yes, mother,” he says breathlessly.

 

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Gongju.**

“My lord!”

Jaehyun looks up distractedly, one coin in his outstretched hand. The vendor takes it from him, placing the parcel in it.

“Thank you,” he says, and the old man flashes him a toothless smile.

“My lord, they’re here!” comes the voice again, and a young girl he recognizes as one of the maids from their household comes rushing up to him.

“Already?” he asks, his heart leaping into his throat.

She nods.

“Alright, thank you. Now run along, I’m coming,” he says to her, and she bows.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, watching her pale green skirt fluttering behind her as she disappears into the crowd milling in the marketplace. He doesn’t know why he’s so anxious about meeting his old friend.

 

He steps past the threshold, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the dimness. He nods at the servants bowing to him in the doorway.

“Where are they?” he whispers, and he doesn’t know why he’s whispering.

“In the tea room, my lord,” one of the girls says.

He walks in quietly, a little breathless, turns the corner to the tea room, and he can sense the excited buzz in the air, the old servants telling the new ones all about the royals in their tea room. The ones who lived here ten years, and then left for the palace. The woman who first came here with a four year old child in her arms, and the wrath of a queen at her heels. The young prince who inherited his mother’s delicate beauty and intelligence, and the great king’s thirst for knowledge. They have returned to this house that sheltered them for ten years, they have returned to show their gratitude, how gracious they are, how lovely her binyeo is, how strong the set of his jaw, how exquisite their robes are, how poised…

He stands unsurely at the door to the tea room.

“Are you going in, my lord?” a servant asks.

He nods dumbly, and the man opens his mouth to announce his arrival, but he raises a hand to quiet him. He reaches out and slides the door open himself.

Taeyong.

He’s sitting there with his back to the door, dressed in a deep, heavy red. Jaehyun watches, his chest tight, as he speaks to Jaehyun’s father. They’re all smiling and laughing, and he watches breathless as Taeyong reaches for his cup, one slim, bony hand that’s achingly familiar. He looks broader than before, thicker around the shoulders.

A servant hurries past him, a new pot of tea balanced on a wooden tray.

“Jaehyun!”

Jaehyun starts. It’s his father’s voice.

“Come in, boy,” he says. “What are you doing, loitering around there?”

“Yes, father,” he says, and he steps in, sees the way Taeyong tenses up for a moment.

Taeyong turns to look at him his lips parting in surprise and then melting into the warmest smile, and it’s as if Jaehyun’s whole world stops, because the young face that he knew is gone. His steps falter and he knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop. Taeyong’s face has changed in a way, nothing drastic, but his jaw and cheekbones are stronger now, the sure lines of his eyebrows framing his deep, glimmering eyes. His skin is glowing in the lamplight, his smile radiant.

“Jaehyun,” he says.

He knows he should say something, but words are failing him. He bows. “Your highness,” he says.

Taeyong’s smile slips.

 

Jaehyun sits in the courtyard, his knees drawn to his chin. Night has fallen, and the moon has risen, but he cannot sleep. Beside him, is a parcel wrapped in thin white muslin. He had gone out to buy the cakes Taeyong used to love eating, from that same old vendor in the marketplace, but in the rush of things, in the uncomfortable realization that Taeyong is real royalty now, not just his beloved hyungnim from Gongju, he had forgotten to give it to him.

He sat across from Taeyong at the table, while his parents barraged Taeyong and his mother with questions of what his life is like now, in the palace, a prince restored to his position. He sat there feeling hopelessly lost, trying to start a conversation with his old friend, and failing.

“Jaehyun.”

It’s Taeyong’s voice. Deeper now, the sound of a man. He tenses, turns to the source of the sound. Taeyong is standing there in the shadows, dressed in light cotton bedclothes, and he looks ethereal in the moonlight.

He steps closer, and Jaehyun moves to stand up, but Taeyong stops him.

“Don’t,” he says, and settles down next to him. A shadow in deep green comes to rest a few feet away.

They sit in a strange, tense sort of silence for a moment.

“Race you to the stream?” Taeyong says abruptly.

Jaehyun’s eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to look at Taeyong to see if he’s joking, but those deep eyes looking back at him are glinting with mischief, familiar and sincere, that steady gaze. He stares for a moment, long enough to catch to smile creeping into his eyes, and before he knows it, Taeyong is getting to his feet and running.

He stares after him, dumbfounded, for just a moment before he, too, is standing. He takes two steps forward before realizing that he’s forgotten the parcel, and he doubles back clumsily, bending, scrambling to pick it up before running after Taeyong again.

A voice is yelling frantically from behind him.

“Your highness! Wait!”

Taeyong’s voice rings out. “Leave us, Choi Jin!”

The voice is still grumbling behind Jaehyun, getting fainter as he leaves the house behind and finds his bare feet hitting the rough gravel of the open fields. He takes long strides, trying to keep the parcel tucked under his arm and catch up to Taeyong, but he’s too fast, and Jaehyun laughs, loud and uninhibited.

“Hyungnim!” he calls out.

“What?” Taeyong shouts back, laughter in his voice, too.

“I’ve missed you!” Jaehyun says.

“I know, you fool!”

They come to a stop by the stream, panting. Taeyong is doubled over, his hands on his knees while he tries to catch his breath. Jaehyun is sprawled out on his back, his chest rising and falling harshly.

“I’ve won again,” Taeyong announces.

“You got a head start.”

“Don’t be sore,” he teases, and he gets a fistful of grass to the face.

He chuckles, and moves over to collapse onto his back next to Jaehyun. They let moments slip by in silence again, comfortable this time.

“You don’t know how much I missed you, Jaehyun,” he says softly. “I count the days to your letters, do you know that?”

Jaehyun says nothing, his heart hammering and hammering, and he wonders why it hasn’t calmed yet.

“And I count the days to yours,” he murmurs at last, turning to look at Taeyong, meeting his gaze. Taeyong smiles, the same radiant, beautiful thing he saw that afternoon, and his poor heart just won’t quiet. The tips of his ears burn, and he doesn’t know why.

“I got you something,” he says, sitting up and handing him the parcel, an effort to distract Taeyong from the red in his cheeks.

“What is it?” he asks, unwrapping it carefully. The white muslin falls open in his lap, and there are the cakes Jaehyun bought that afternoon. Caramel colored and soggy. He smiles wide and true.

“They’re just cakes, you royal fool,” he mutters, and averts his eyes from that siren smile before his heart bursts out of his chest. This stream and those cakes and that boy sitting by his side. As if no time has passed since the last time they sat like this. When he blinks, there’s an image he can’t erase from behind his eyelids, leaning over, pressing his lips to Taeyong’s cheek.

He flushes furiously.

He doesn’t understand it.

 

“My word, your highness, how could you run off like that last night?” Choi Jin mutters. “Your clothes were a mess, and just look at your feet! You were bleeding!”

“It was a scratch, Choi Jin, don’t nag,” Taeyong says tiredly. “And don’t you dare tell mother.”

“I would never,” he says. “She would have my head.”

Taeyong chuckles. “Why don’t you take two days and visit your family?” he suggests. “We’ve come all this way.”

Choi Jin looks up, his hands stilling on the belts of Taeyong’s robes. “Would your mother approve of that?” he asks apprehensively.

“That’s irrelevant. You serve me, and I say you can go,” Taeyong says.

The young eunuch grins wide. “Thank you so much, your highness,” he says with a big laugh, and Taeyong smiles.

 

Taeyong heads over to the courtyard, the sounds of wooden swords clashing, groaning, thudding, the familiar sounds of morning training drawing him in. He wonders if he’ll find Kim Jae there, and his heart soars at the thought of meeting the man who taught him everything he knows about fighting, that kindly man filled with laughter. The moment he steps out of the sliding screen door into bright sunlight, he sees Jaehyun being pushed to the ground, flat on his back, and a tall man towering over him with a wooden sword pointing straight at his throat.

“I see you’re still a shoddy swordsman,” he says with a chuckle. He remembers clearly, the reluctance with which Jaehyun would join him for lessons, the glee in his face when the hour drew to a close and he could run back to the cool, dim, library and read and write to his heart’s content.

“Hyungnim!” Jaehyun greets him, rolling to his side and getting to his feet. Taeyong smiles fondly at him and the man bowing deeply beside him.

“Your highness,” Kim Jae says.

“How are you?” he asks with a grin he can’t contain, stepping into the courtyard.

“I am well as ever, your highness,” the man says. “And you have grown into a fine young man. It is good to see you well. Have the masters been teaching you well?”

“Of course,” Taeyong says, smiling, seating himself to the side. “They are quite drab after your lessons.”

“I am honored,” the man says.

“Where is your green companion today?” Jaehyun interjects, his eyes squinting past the screen door into the dark hallway.

Taeyong chuckles. “I have sent him home to visit his family. I am all yours today,” he says mischievously. “What shall we do?”

“Anything you want, your highness, but with your permission, after this lesson,” Kim Jae says.

“Please, do not let me interrupt,” he says apologetically.

Kim Jae bows again, and Jaehyun sighs, dejectedly taking his stance. Taeyong watches, amused, waiting for the inevitable, Jaehyun being pushed to the ground or backed up against a dead end with a sword at his throat, taking a blow to the back or the chest and groaning, pleading with Kim Jae to end the lesson early. He used to hide behind Taeyong when the three of them practiced together. He used to make Kim Jae laugh so hard, he would have to sit down under the acacia for a good minute to catch his breath. He watches.

Kim Jae strikes first. Jaehyun twists away. Taeyong’s eyebrows shoot up and his lips part slightly. Again, and again, every blow, he evades or blocks, strikes back, precise and calculated, the sounds of wooden swords clashing echoing around him. Taeyong watches, amusement slipping away.

 _Jaehyun, right foot back_ , Taeyong thinks, when he sees the stance Kim Jae takes, anticipating the direction of his blow, and before he can finish the thought, Jaehyun’s right foot slides back. Taeyong leans forward.

 _Strike low,_ he thinks, and Jaehyun’s sword is slashing at Kim Jae’s calves.

 _Cover your left side_ , and Jaehyun is twisting to his left.

He watches, breathless. A lesser swordsman than Kim Jae would have been struck at least once. He’s mesmerized by the way Jaehyun’s body is moving. He doesn’t know how or when this happened. He frowns.

 _Forward now_ , and Jaehyun is standing, back straight, shoulders back, sword arm raised with the blade at Kim Jae’s throat.

Silence falls, except for the sound of the two men panting, and Taeyong finds that he cannot breathe, as if he was is in that fight with Jaehyun.

He stares, the sun beating down harshly, the slope of his nose and the color of his skin, the shape of his lips and the fire in his eyes. He stares at the sweat sliding down Jaehyun’s temple, down the side of his strong neck. His broad shoulders and his height, just a span shorter than Kim Jae. That must mean he’s as tall as Taeyong, now?

When did this happen?

He watches the focused frown on the younger’s face melting away, a triumphant smile taking its place, two familiar dimples coming back to remind him that he’s the same Jaehyun he left behind in Gongju two years ago.

The same, just older.

“Alright, my lord, we will stop here,” Kim Jae says, and Jaehyun drops his arm.

“Thank god, it’s really too hot for this,” Jaehyun grumbles. “Hyungnim, will you wait? I’ll change and come back.”

Taeyong nods dumbly, still staring at him. He had noticed, at tea, last night by the stream, he had noticed that Jaehyun looks like a man now, the soft curves of his cheeks receding into stronger lines, elegant, handsome lines, but he couldn’t take it seriously. Not his whiny baby best friend. He couldn’t be growing into such a man.

“Your highness?” Kim Jae says.

Taeyong starts, realizing that he’s been staring after Jaehyun at an empty doorway.

“He’s rather good, isn’t he?” the man remarks.

“When… how?” Taeyong says.

“He’s been practicing since you left,” he says, sitting down, two steps lower than him.

“Why? He used to hate doing this!”

“He has his reasons.”

 

Taeyong sits quietly on the courtyard steps, watching Jaehyun finish yet another lesson with Kim Jae, contemplating the conversation he had with Kim Jae three days prior.

He has his reasons. What reasons, he thinks. Could he be in love? Does he want to be able to protect a woman? Why else would an aspiring scholar teach himself to fight like a warrior?

He is filled with questions, and for some strange reason, the answers he finds unsettle him.

“Hyungnim, shall we go now?” Jaehyun asks.

Taeyong looks up at him. He has already changed and returned, and Taeyong wonders how long he’s been sitting there thinking about this.

He nods and stands, and chuckles a little when he gets a good look at Jaehyun.

“Your gat is crooked, fool,” he tells him.

Jaehyun flushes. “I was in a hurry,” he mumbles. “You were waiting.”

“Come here, I will fix it for you,” he says, stepping close. He reaches for the ribbon tied clumsily under Jaehyun’s chin and pulls it loose, reaching up to straighten the black horsehair hat, his gaze dropping to the ribbons again till he ties them in place.

“There,” he says, his eyes lifting to Jaehyun’s face, and he falters. Jaehyun lowers his eyes hurriedly, and Taeyong realizes that he was staring at him unashamedly, as if he were seeing something for the first time, and Taeyong can’t help but notice how lovely his face has become. How heavy his gaze is. How his cheeks are flushed.

“All done,” he says again, and clears his throat, puzzled by the way his heart races.

 

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong whispers. “Are you studying very sincerely?”

“Yes, hyungnim,” Jaehyun replies, his eyes trained on the thick book on the desk in front of him. They are sitting in the library, Taeyong reading a book while Jaehyun finishes his reading for the day, but his mind wanders, toys with the questions filling his idle thoughts for the past few days.

“Can I ask you something?” Taeyong says.

“What is it hyungnim?” Jaehyun replies, finally looking up at him.

“Why are you learning to fight?”

“Because I must go to Hanyang, and I must protect you from anyone who wishes to harm you,” he states simply.

Taeyong stares at him for a moment while the words sink in, and then bursts into laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” Jaehyun asks, frowning.

“I am happy,” Taeyong replies. “I laugh because I am happy to have a friend like you. Because I have missed you, and I love you dearly, and I haven’t heard anything like this in the past two years.”

And because he is relieved, strangely, that there is no woman he loves, no woman he wishes to protect.

Jaehyun smiles. “Tell me what it’s like,” he says. “Tell me everything, not like your letters.”

So Taeyong tells him, in full words and sentences, about his life in the palace, sparing no detail, never hiding the way he does in his letters.

He tells him about how hard he’s been working to gain his father’s approval. About how hard it is to gain his father’s approval. About his step brothers. Crown Prince Yeonsangun and his tyranny, his mistreatment of the servants and palace women, how much that infuriates him, and how little he can do about it. About Yi Yeok, the little prince, six years old and wise beyond his years, how much he adores him. The way he fears his mother’s ambition.

The way he misses Jaehyun.

Jaehyun tells him, too. How hard he’s been working to come to Seonggyungwan. How his mother’s health is fragile, how that scares him. How his father has been taking him to meet the important men in Gongju, letting him speak with the scholars, how that intimidates him.

How he misses Taeyong.

 

 

They walk side by side next to the stream, and Jaehyun seems lost in thought.

Four days remain of the time Taeyong is to spend in Gongju, which means that ten days have gone by, filled to the brim with wandering around Gongju’s many roads, eating all the food that the market had to offer. Taeyong would read the new books in the library while Jaehyun finished his reading for his lessons, and in the evenings they’d go fishing together or watch the evening performances in town. Perhaps even just sit by this very stream and share stories of the time they spent without the other.

Sometimes, in these past ten days, Taeyong would catch Jaehyun staring at him as though he were seeing something for the first time, and it would take everything he had not to flush with embarrassment. Sometimes, he’d catch himself staring at Jaehyun, because he is seeing this for the first time, his strength and the depth of his voice, the charm in his smile that goes beyond just those dimples, something in his eyes, in his demeanor, something older and more mature than he remembers. And it would take everything he had not to flush with embarrassment.

Sometimes he would find his heart hammering for no reason.

When Jaehyun would read him beautiful poetry about love and loss, like that day when he read out Hwang Jin I – I will break the back of this long midwinter night, folding it double, cold beneath my spring quilt, that I may draw out the night, should my love return – and Taeyong found their eyes meeting and all the air leaving his chest to make room for an emotion so overwhelming he didn’t know what to do with it.

Or when he’d take him by the hand and run through the wheat fields, and Taeyong would inexplicably find himself thinking back to a memory two years old, the day Jaehyun kissed his cheek out of the blue, and he’d laugh it off, fighting the tremble in his voice and the twisting in his stomach. Sometimes he’d find his chest tight for no reason, like that they met that pretty girl at the market, from a family passing through Gongju on their way south. Like when she smiled at Jaehyun and blushed prettily, and he spoke to her and her chaperone, charming like Taeyong has never seen him.

He seems so grown up now, he’d think, and brush it all off.

Taeyong looks over at Jaehyun, frowning and focused on the ground at his feet. He wonders what he’s thinking about so deeply, lines etched into his fair forehead, his arms behind his back, his lips a thin line.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks. “You’re going to stare a hole into the ground.”

Jaehyun starts. He chuckles, and stops walking. “Nothing,” he says. “Just the thought of you leaving.”

“The thought of me leaving?” Taeyong repeats. “It has you frowning like you’ve just lost your home?”

Jaehyun stares at him, that same stare, as if he’s seeing something for the first time, wordless and unwavering.

“Yes,” he says. “It hurts more than the first time you left me.”

 _The first time you left me_ , Taeyong echoes in his head, a flush climbing his neck. _Not the first time you left Gongju._

_It hurts more, yes, it does hurt more._

The thought of leaving Gongju frightens him, leaving his friend, his breath of air after two years drowning. It hurts so much more, and he doesn’t want to think about it.

Taeyong grins, an idea taking form in the back of his mind. “I haven’t left yet,” he says, and steps close, his hand lifting to rest against Jaehyun’s chest, broad and strong under his hand, and he sees the confusion in Jaehyun’s eyes, the way he holds his breath and the way his cheeks flush pink. Taeyong’s heart hammers, too, the way it has been doing around Jaehyun for the past ten days, when he looks straight into Jaehyun’s eyes and holds his gaze.

Moments later, a splash rings out in the quiet woodland, followed by a gleeful laugh. Taeyong has to clutch his sides because they hurt so much from laughing when Jaehyun’s head rises above the water, looking like some sort of wet dog.

“Hyungnim, stop laughing,” he says indignantly, swimming upstream to where Taeyong is standing at the bank.

“I am sorry Jaehyun, but that was just so funny!” Taeyong gasps. “I wish you could have seen your face, you were so shocked.”

Jaehyun makes a face, slowly getting out of the water. “Well of course I was shocked,” he says reproachfully. “I did not expect my best friend to push me into a stream out of the blue. Traitor.”

“I really am sorry, it was just so tempting,” Taeyong says, a few short laughs trailing behind.

Jaehyun leans in close.

“I know,” he whispers, and wraps his arm around Taeyong’s waist, sees the way his eyes widen and his mouth is about to say no, and then he drags the prince into the stream with him.

He laughs long and hard as Taeyong struggles with his heavy robes in the water. Taeyong chuckles too, wading up close and pushing Jaehyun’s head underwater.

“Hyungnim!” Jaehyun says, bubbling back up to the surface and wrapping both arms around Taeyong.

“Don’t you dare,” Taeyong warns, but Jaehyun just grins and tries to pull him underneath. Taeyong tries his best to resist, pushing Jaehyun off, but he’s too strong.

“Don’t struggle!” Jaehyun laughs. “They might hang me for accidentally drowning the prince.”

Taeyong bursts into laughter and tries to push at Jaehyun’s chest again, but he loses balance and slips, and Jaehyun loses his grip on his waist, and Taeyong falls. In one short moment, Jaehyun’s mirth falls away and worry takes its place.

“Hyungnim!” Jaehyun calls out, panicked for a moment, till Taeyong rises to the surface again.

“I think I’ve hurt my knee,” he says with a grimace, and Jaehyun watches in horror as the water runs red around them.

“Oh god,” he breathes. He wraps an arm around Taeyong’s waist, supports him out of the water and lets him down on the bank.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” he asks worriedly. “I am so sorry, hyungnim.”

“No, not really,” Taeyong replies, but Jaehyun’s eyes are fixed on the blood soaking through the deep blue silk.

“God, I am so sorry I did that to you. Let me take you back,” Jaehyun says. “Can you walk?”

“I’m fine, we can stay here a while longer,” Taeyong says with a laugh. “Stop worrying.”

“Let me look at the wound.”

“It’s really not so bad.”

“Hyungnim, don’t argue with me.”

Taeyong relents, reaches under his silk robes pulls them halfway up his thigh along with the cotton underclothes, now dyed crimson with blood. Jaehyun gasps, his throat closing up, because the skin has peeled back and taken flesh with it, an ugly gaping wound oozing blood.

“Jaehyun, really, I’m fine. I am not in pain,” Taeyong says softly.

“Hyungnim, no, we must go back immediately,” Jaehyun says, retrieving a handkerchief from the breast of his robes.

“Jaehyun…”

“ _Taeyong.”_

They stare at each other in shocked silence for a moment. Jaehyun cannot believe he called a prince of Joseon by name, and Taeyong cannot believe how lovely it sounded coming from his mouth.

“Please, I don’t want it to get worse,” Jaehyun mumbles, dropping his gaze and proceeding to tie the small piece of cloth tightly around the wound.

“Alright,” Taeyong says, wincing when the cloth tightens. “I don’t want to worry you. Let’s go back.”

 

“What a mess, your highness, oh you are hurt so badly, oh your highness,” Choi Jin fusses, buzzing around him, preparing a leaf paste to put on the wound.

Taeyong blinks, smiling benignly and waiting for the sting of the medicine. He is lying on a wooden table in the medicine room, deep pink silk under him. Incense burns in a corner, and his nose tickles with the smell of many herbs mixing together. His knee and thigh have been cleaned and bandaged with muslin.

The doctor has come and gone, and his mother has come and gone, all fussing over a wound that he really can’t be bothered about. Jaehyun has not come by since he brought Taeyong back to the house and heard an earful from his parents about foolish games and royalty and how _could he be so careless._ He closes his eyes, and he can see Jaehyun’s fearful eyes looking back at him by the stream.

 _Taeyong_.

He wishes he would call him that again. He wishes it were not tainted with fear and guilt.

“Where is Jaehyun?” he asks.

“I do not know, your highness.”

“Can you find him for me?” Taeyong asks. “I am afraid he blames himself.”

“Should he not?” Choi Jin asks tentatively. “It is his fault this happened to you.”

“No,” Taeyong says. “It is not. Just bring him to me.”

“I am here,” says Jaehyun’s voice from behind the screen door.

Taeyong raises himself up on his elbows. He can see a tall shadow behind the door.

“Choi Jin, leave us,” he says.

The eunuch hesitates, but when Taeyong glares in his direction, he sighs and leaves, grumbling his way out the door. Taeyong watches, and Jaehyun steps in slowly, closing the door behind him.

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong breathes.

“Are you alright?” he says, not quite meeting his eyes.

Taeyong sits up and moves forward, his legs dangling off the table. He is only partly aware of his state of undress, the silk covering his body drapes between his thighs. “I am perfectly alright,” he says. “Come here. Why do you look like that? How long have you been standing there?”

“I… I am sorry. If I had not pulled you into the water, you would not be hurt.”

“I slipped.”

“But it is my fault that you are hurt,” Jaehyun says stubbornly.

Taeyong holds out his hand and slips it into Jaehyuns, drawing him closer gently. The boy steps close to the table, and Taeyong lets his hand rest on his uninjured knee. His palm is large and warm on his skin, neat, long fingers, the kind that belong to an artist resting hesitantly where he left them. Taeyong swallows, only now realizing how exposed he really is. He doesn’t know why that bothers him. Jaehyun has seen him entirely naked, those days they used to swim together. His eyes trail up Jaehyun’s forearm, strong and lean, scraped and bleeding.

“What of this?” he asks softly, his fingers trailing gently over the wounds that he knows happened when Taeyong pushed him into the water. He looks up. “Is this not my fault?”

“They are only scratches,” Jaehyun says dismissively, his eyes following the path Taeyong’s fingers trace over his arm. “They are worth the time I spend with you.”

“And so is this,” he replies, gesturing to the bandages on his knee and thigh. “It is worth the laughter and the memories you give me.”

Jaehyun stares at him with an emotion Taeyong cannot place, but he feels as though it is mirrored in his own eyes. A handsome face, the face of a man. The hand on his knee squeezes, and the muscles in Taeyong’s back stiffen and his heart skips a beat. That touch doesn’t feel like it has felt all these years.

“I want only to protect you. My dearest friend, I want to protect you from harm, I do not want to cause you harm.”

“It is not your responsibility to protect me. I will protect myself,” Taeyong says firmly, speaking over his heart pounding in his ears. “You need only love me as far and as deep as friends can love.”

Both of them feel the shift in the air. Undeniable, painful.

Jaehyun’s breath comes thick. It doesn’t reach his chest, just sticks in his throat. The smooth, bare thighs, fair, with one faint jagged scar he’s had for as long as Jaehyun can remember. He wants to let his hand run over his knee and up his thigh, over the smooth skin he didn’t know he wanted to touch, so he leans forward and presses his forehead to Taeyong’s, their eyes closed and their faces almost touching.

“I will love you more,” he whispers, so soft he might as well be mouthing it. He thinks it goes unheard, but the hitch in the prince’s breath does not.

 

Jaehyun sits alone in the library, his heart in his throat, his brush in his hand, lingering an inch above the paper. His head hurts from all the thinking he has done.

Blushing like a fool when he comes close. Talking to him for hours on end without tiring. Staring shamelessly at him.

Losing himself in that beautiful smile.

Spending an hour every night trying to recreate every line of his face within his mind, to keep with himself when he leaves again.

The fear that gripped his bones when he hurt himself.

Calling his name.

Touching his skin.

Something has changed between them. Something is not quite the same, and he is afraid of what it is. His beloved friend, his companion through good and bad, the boy who knows him inside out, the boy he knows inside out.

He’s not just a friend now.

He’s beautiful, and he makes his heart race, and his stomach flutter, and his mind blur, and he gives him strength and courage and he’s leaving.

He presses his brush to the paper and writes.

 

 

“Read me something,” Taeyong says, resting his chin in one hand. It is early in the morning, the day he is to leave for Hanyang, and he is waiting with Jaehyun in the library. Both rose earlier than needed to spend a few more hours together. The silence is thick, and the light is dim, except for the flickering lamp on the corner of the table. They are both miserable, and neither of them has bothered to hide it.

Jaehyun clears his throat and begins reading Confucian teachings out loud, from the pages his tutor gave him. His heart hurts at the thought of Taeyong leaving, so much more than the first time he said goodbye, because he has found some new strange thing that runs deeper than the childhood games and the love of a friend. He would not want him to leave unhappy. He wants to hear him laugh.

Taeyong chuckles. “Anything but this,” he says. “Read me something you wrote.”

Jaehyun smiles and puts the papers away, happy that he has heard that familiar laugh that sounds like hiccups once more before he leaves. “They are new, and I have not written in a long time,” he says in a manner of apology. “It might not please you.”

“Everything you write pleases me.”

Jaehyun flushes, reaches for the bound pages he keeps under his desk. He flips the pages to the third from the last, and begins to read the Sijo. Taeyong’s eyes close, his breathing slowing to the rhythm of the Jaehyun’s words. Jaehyun turns the page, the paper whispering as it falls into place, and he keeps on reading, his eyes trained on the page in front of him.

“…acacia blooms on the hillside,” he finishes and looks up, and he sees a small smile playing on Taeyong’s lips, beautiful in the flickering lamplight.

He looks down at the pages. There is one page left, with only one Sijo on it, the last. He contemplates reading it, the breath leaving his chest at the thought of Taeyong hearing it.

“That is all,” he says. “I have no more.”

“There is one more,” Taeyong says, his eyes still closed.

“I… it is still unpolished.”

“I will love it all the same,” he says.

Jaehyun takes a deep breath, his ears coloring red. He cannot read that to Taeyong, he cannot bear the thought of Taeyong hearing it, but the Prince is still sitting there, his eyes closed and expecting to hear another poem. He hesitates.

“Climb the rocks on high and dive into deep blue water,” he reads, and he pauses. Another shaky breath.

“Wings will appear before I hit the ocean.”

He swallows. He is afraid of looking up at Taeyong.

“Perhaps the seagull was born this way, too,” he finishes. He waits, still staring at the page, breathlessly waiting for Taeyong’s response, but nothing comes. He cannot fight the curiosity anymore, so he looks up, and his throat tightens. Taeyong is looking at him, his deep eyes and his steady gaze have him pinned like an insect.

“My poet, it is beautiful,” Taeyong says. “You plunge to an inevitable fate, and you find freedom.”

Jaehyun nods.

“What were you writing about?”

Jaehyun swallows again, thick and painful. He’s come this far.

“Love,” he mumbles, lowering his gaze.

“You are in love?” Taeyong asks quietly. “And you didn’t tell me all these days?”

“I think so,” Jaehyun replies, acutely aware of the sound of Taeyong’s breathing in that painfully quiet library, steady and maddening.

“With whom?” Taeyong asks.

Jaehyun looks up at his friend, and he does not know what to say when so much beauty is before him, answering that question. He does not know what happens, perhaps some otherworldly magic in that dim early morning light and that excruciating silence. He reaches out, staring in disbelief as his fingertips slide over Taeyong’s cheek, as his palm takes its place, cupping Taeyong’s cheek as if it is something delicate, like the flowers that bloom by the stream in the springtime. Taeyong’s eyes widen just slightly, his mouth opening and closing.

“What is this?” Taeyong breathes, holding his gaze.

“Something you must forgive.”

Jaehyun leans forward till he can feel Taeyong’s breath on his lips, sweet like wild berries. He hesitates, lingers close while his mind screams no, no, no, but his fingertips know that Taeyong is not pulling away, and his lips can still feel his sweet breath. He closes his eyes tight and leans in further, one tantalizing brush of their lips together, feather light, but his whole body trembles. Taeyong shifts a little, and their lips brush again, and Taeyong is breathing hard. Jaehyun steels himself, plunges to his inevitable fate, presses his lips gently to Taeyong’s, and his prince is not pushing him away.

He breaks the kiss, breathless and shocked, his eyes wide and his throat struggling to let the air reach his chest. Taeyong looks at him with the same sort of disbelief he’s feeling.

“What was that?” Taeyong breathes.

“I do not know,” Jaehyun confesses.

Taeyong’s hand fists in the silk of Jaehyun’s sleeve, he closes his eyes and leans in and everything Jaehyun has, every shred of restraint, breaks, and goes back to Taeyong’s lips like he needs that kiss to be able to breathe. Their lips meet again, still gentle, still tender and hesitant, but it is a kiss shared by lovers and it cannot be anything else.

Jaehyun is acutely aware of everything, the brush of Taeyong’s lashes against his cheek and the slim, bony hand that reaches for his free hand and laces their fingers together in his lap, the softness of the lips he’s kissing and the moisture they leave behind on his mouth. He’s so aware, so, so aware of the fact that Taeyong’s lips are moving with his in beautiful harmony, and the sounds their mouths make, wet and soft, are lighting a fire in his chest like he’s never felt before.

“Your highness!” a voice calls out in the distance and they spring apart. “Your highness, the carriage is ready and your mother is waiting!”

Jaehyun covers his mouth with a trembling hand and stares at the floor, his mind blank. Beside him, Taeyong has placed a hand on his own chest as if calming his heart, staring unseeingly at the pages in Jaehyun’s lap. The silence is broken only by their labored breathing. That strange, otherworldly magic of the moment is broken, and they have stepped back into their roles. A boy and his friend, sixteen and a half, and fifteen, a prince, and his subject.

“I must leave,” Taeyong says quietly.

“I will help you,” Jaehyun breathes, getting to his feet quickly and helping Taeyong up with an arm around his waist. Neither can meet the other’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Taeyong says, when he has stood, and then he nods stupidly, turns around.

He takes two limping steps to the library door before Jaehyun is reaching out and holding his hand. Taeyong turns back, and he has no choice but to look Jaehyun in the eye.

“I will come to you,” Jaehyun whispers.

“I will count the days,” Taeyong replies, muted, and Jaehyun finds freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew that was long. Sorry about that. Here's a heart for my lovely readers <3


	4. Four

 

 

**Present Day, Seoul.**

Taeyong wakes up, his head pounding, his stomach lurching. He groans, slapping a hand over his eyes so he can stay in the dark a little longer. A fleeting image from a dream flashes behind his eyelids.

How fucking weird, he thinks, when he remembers what he was dreaming about. The same dream, seagulls and the ocean and laughter. And Jaehyun. Fingers carding through his hair, a giggle, his own voice, are you braiding my hair? A sigh, the press of lips aginst his own. Sleepy eyes looking back at him. A dimpled smile pressed to his bare chest.

He flushes, scrubbing furiously at his face with his palm.

What the fuck, what the fuck, he thinks. What the actual fuck.

He had a feeling, something unshakeable that his dreams were about Jaehyun, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was that made him so sure, what the hell it was all about. Now he’s sure, it’s definitely about Jaehyun, but he still hasn’t the slightest idea what it’s all about.

He sits up slowly and looks around, a yawn and a stretch before he orients himself a little more. He’s in Jaehyun’s bed, he realizes, and his blush just intensifies, burning in his cheeks. He gets out of bed, fighting through a tangle of sheets, rushes out of Jaehyun’s room with his eyes glued to the ground.

 

 

 **1944, Seoul**.

“Jaehyun!”

Jaehyun grunts. He’s dozing off in a chair in a corner of the kitchen. The backdoor is open and a cool breeze drifts in, raising gooseflesh on his arms.

He’s dreaming, he knows he’s dreaming, but it’s a strange dream. He can’t see a damned thing. He can just hear, feel, taste, smell, but he can’t see. The sound of rain, of heavy footsteps, creaking wooden floorboards, wet clothes sticking to his skin, weighing him down while rain hammers down on his body. Gooseflesh on his arms. The smell of wet earth. He’s tied, is he tied? He can’t move his arms, and he’s afraid, terrified, his heart pounding and his body trembling. He hears a small sob. It’s his voice.

He can’t see, why can’t he see? Is that cloth covering his face? Wet, clinging, he can’t quite breathe.

“Jung Jaehyun!”

A blinding light, rain pelting down on his face, he blinks. An open field, building trepidation, he can’t keep himself standing straight, he’s so afraid. He doesn’t understand it, but there’s a single thought in his head, three syllables, looping over and over in his heart as if those words would give him hope, make everything alright.

“Boy, wake up!”

He startles awake. His grandmother is standing in front of him with one hand on her hand on her hip and the other holding a wicker basket.

“God, don’t yell,” he says, scowling up at her.

“It’s starting to rain, get the laundry down,” she says, thrusting the basket into his face.

He scrunches up his nose and rubs blearily at his eyes, his heart still pounding.

“Today, boy,” she says again.

“Alright,” he grumbles, taking the basket from her and getting to his feet.

He can hear her muttering under her breath behind him as he ambles out the backdoor. Something about children these days, lazy something. He tunes her out and steps out into the backyard, down four wooden steps, creaking under his weight.

A fine drizzle dots his skin and flecks his hair.

A shiver runs down his spine.

What a strange dream, he thinks, stepping up to the clothesline and taking the wooden pegs off. What the hell was that all about?

Wind whips the clothes back and forth, and he reaches up to steady the line, a little shiver in his skin. The smell of wet earth rises, heavy and warm from the ground he’s standing on, and his clothes start sticking to his body. He swallows thickly. He can’t get that dream out of his head. He can’t get that terror to drain from his body.

Don’t be dumb, he thinks, proceeding to take the clothes down, but he knows his hands are trembling. He hears the wooden stairs near the door creak. The hair on the back of his neck rises and his hands don’t stop trembling, and he’s struggling with the wooden peg but it just won’t come off. His heart is hammering and his throat is drying. How strange.

A pair of slim, bony hands reach up next to Jaehyun’s own and unclip the peg. Jaehyun’s hands slip away from the clothesline, and he almost drops the basket. He turns.

“You’re being so slow, everything’s going to be drenched by the time you’re done,” Taeyong says flatly, pulling down clothes and tossing them into the basket quickly.

A sort of relief washes over him that he can’t explain, when he sees Taeyong standing there, his hair damp and his clothes damp and his high cheekbones catching light and his mouth sort of set crookedly with concentration. His heart calms. His hands stop trembling. The cold seeps out of his bones.

“You came,” he says dumbly, quietly, and he’s appalled by what he’s said the moment the words leave his mouth.

Taeyong looks at him, somewhat puzzled, and grins a little.

“Well yes, you’re terrible at this,” he says.

Jaehyun chuckles, an embarrassed red tinting the tips of his ears. Embarrassed at his actions, at his words _, you came_ , what the hell, really, why did I even say that. Embarrassed of his dream and those three syllables ringing in his mind.

By the time they rush inside together it’s pouring, and they’re both drenched, and maybe they couldn’t keep the laundry dry per se, but he considers it a job well done that those clothes in the wicker basket aren’t dripping like he and Taeyong are. Lee Taeyong, the son of this household, the heir to a fortune, elegant, polished, helping him with the laundry.

He watches Taeyong’s long fingers slide into his hair, shaking the water out.

Three syllables on his tongue to give him hope and make everything alright.

_Yi Taeyong._

 

 

“Hey hyung,” Jaehyun says, flustered. Taeyong hasn’t ever come to their quarters, at least in the months Jaehyun has been living there, and it embarrasses him a little, throws him off. “Something you need?”

“Nothing, just… abeoji asked me to keep his stamp ready by the time he comes home and I can’t find it,” he says, his eyes travelling over Jaehyun’s shoulder to the two boys sitting on the floor with a heap of cards in front of them. His eyes flick back to Jaehyun’s face. “Halmeoni isn’t here?”

“She’s at the market,” he reports. “I’ll tell her when she gets back?”

“Yes, do that,” Taeyong says with a small smile, his gaze wandering to the two boys again. “Your friends?”

Jaehyun nods.

“That’s good, that you’ve made friends,” he mumbles and looks away, but he lingers on as if he has something more to say, or as if he wishes Jaehyun would say something more. A beat of silence passes between them, and Taeyong clears his throat. He half turns away. “Well, then I’ll go,’ he says.

“Or you could come in?” Jaehyun blurts stupidly.

Taeyong smiles and turns back to face him, and he thinks maybe that’s what he was waiting to hear.

He’s only ever seen Taeyong going to school and coming back and sitting for lessons with tutors or reading his books or holed up in his room doing god knows what, and never once seen him with kids of his own age doing kid things.

“Are you sure?” Taeyong asks hesitantly. “I mean…”

“Yes, I mean if you want to? We have cards,” he replies, stepping aside. He hears the chatter behind him quieting and he cringes. He hopes this won’t be awkward.

Taeyong grins, something big and happy about it. “Yes,” he says. “Of course I want to.”

They stand awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, and Jaehyun curls and uncurls his toes. “Guys,” he calls out, turning to face the two boys. “This is Taeyong hyung.”

He sees the look they shoot him, the way they stand hesitantly, the stiff bows, eyes traveling over Taeyong from head to toe, lingering at the shiny black leather of his watch and his tailored shirt.

The reluctant introductions. The lanky boy to his left, paler than death, his trousers flapping above his ankles, hand-me-downs from his shorter older brother. “I’m Joon Jae,” he says gruffly.

The shorter one to his right with a smudge of shoe polish on his stocky neck that Jaehyun didn’t notice before. “Dae Hyun,” he mumbles.

Jaehyun deflates. This is going to be painful, he thinks.

 

Daehyun warms to him immediately, and it makes perfect sense, because Taeyong is polite, he can see that much, and he’s nice to them, and doesn’t talk down to them like he thought he might. He just seems so genuinely happy to be a part of their game. He laughs raucously at the hesitant jokes Daehyun makes to lighten the mood and Jaehyun can see how much the younger, stockier boy likes that, with the way he beams when he makes Taeyong laugh.

He doesn’t blame him. There’s something about making him laugh that feels good, and he’s learnt that. Like validation, that even someone so delicate and melancholy and beautiful could be happy because of him. It’s easy to believe that he means something to Taeyong, and he’s sure the same thing is happening to Daehyun.

But Joon Jae, perhaps it’s because he’s a little older, he just doesn’t loosen up. He sits there sullenly, stiffly, cursory smiles every now and then, and that worries him. Still, it goes smoothly.

Taeyong laughs happily and sets down his cards. He’s won this round, they realize, and Daehyun groans.

“Aww, hyung, not again,” he says.

“Daehyun,” Joon Jae says stiffly. “Give him your marbles.”

Taeyong raises his eyebrows and looks at Jaehyun, confused.

“We were playing for our stuff,” Jaehyun explains. “Daehyun’s best marbles, Joon Jae hyung’s poster, my chocolate.”

“Oh,” Taeyong says. “But that’s not fair. I can’t take it because I didn’t add anything…”

“What about your watch?” Joon Jae says, and an uncomfortable silence settles around them. Jaehyun’s heart sinks. He knew something like this would happen. His eyes flit to Taeyong’s face and there’s a sort of strained smile there, ugly and out of place on Taeyong’s face.

“Hyung, no, it’s too expensive,” Jaehyun says softly.

“You told me he was loaded,” Joon Jae snaps, and Jaehyun shrinks away. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s not… not a problem,” Taeyong says, undoing his watch and placing it by the cards.

“Great, now, that’s fair, right? Daehyun can give him his marbles.”

“He really doesn’t have to do that,” Taeyong says gently, when he sees how crestfallen Daehyun looks.

“Why not? You won, you should take it,” he says. “Or are you taking pity on him?”

“No! That’s not what I meant. I just think… he likes them so much, so he shouldn’t have to…”

Daehyun smiles at him, but stays silent. Jaehyun knows he’s a little afraid of the older, taller Joon Jae.

“You don’t belong here,” Joon Jae mumbles.

“Hyung,” Daehyun mumbles. “He’s just being nice.”

“No, it’s true! Tell him, Jaehyun. We’re playing so we can take stuff we like from other people because we don’t have the money to buy it for ourselves. But he comes in looking down on us… just because he doesn’t need anything we have to offer. I hate people like him.”

Taeyong stills, his mouth opening and closing dumbly. Jaehyun knows how untrue those words are, one look at Taeyong’s face and he knows, one memory of him letting his father beat him senseless to save Jaehyun’s hide and he knows. That’s not Taeyong.

“Should I..? I should leave,” he says softly. He sounds hurt, and that pulls at something in Jaehyun’s chest.

“Don’t, you don’t have to go,” Jaehyun says softly.

“Shut up, Jaehyun, stop sucking up to him just because you work for him.”

“He doesn’t work for me, he’s my friend,” Taeyong says firmly. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. You don’t have to be rude to him.”

 _My friend_ , the words settle softly in his head. He finds that he likes hearing that. His friend. Who’d take the laundry down with him, and peel potatoes with him and fix a leaking sink with him and lie for him and take a beating for him. Maybe he’s more of a friend than Joon Jae.

“Your friend? That’s cute,” Joon Jae scoffs. “Don’t pretend. You can’t be friends with people like us. You don’t fit here.”

“He does. He’s my friend,” Jaehyun says slowly, his gaze fixed on Taeyong’s face.

“Really? Rich fucker, he’ll toss you aside when it suits him, just you watch,” the older boy spits.

“Don’t talk to him like that.”

“Why not?”

“He hasn’t done anything to you.”

“He’s sitting on his ass in his big house and the rest of us are starving and… how old are you? Why haven’t you been drafted? My brother was drafted, why weren’t you? You got out of it? Your daddy got you out of it? Cried to daddy and he got you a nice shiny watch and told you…”

“Stop it!” Jaehyun says, horrified. “You don’t know anything about him, just shut up.”

“I’m not old enough for conscription,” Taeyong says, his voice small.

“Liar,” he hisses.

The door slides open, and Jaehyun’s grandmother stands there looking uncharacteristically disheveled.

“Doryeonnim! What are you doing here, your father’s home and he’s looking for you!” she exclaims. She looks around at the strangely tense atmosphere while Taeyong scrambles to his feet quickly, and the other three follow suit.

“Oh god, I forgot… is he angry?” he asks softly, pulling his shoes on by the door, and she nods hesitantly.

“Hurry along, now,” she says soothingly.

He rushes out the door, his watch left behind in his haste, and Jaehyun watches him, all but running along that uneven dirt path. It has started to rain again. His attention is drawn back when his grandmother clears her throat.

 “What’s going on here?” she says sternly.

“Nothing,” he says, glaring at Joon Jae. “They were just leaving.”

 

Minutes after they’ve left, he’s sitting on the wooden stairs by the backdoor, watching the rain fall silently, surely, the dull grey of the sky, the bright yellow-green of new leaves on old trees, the deep brown of wet earth. He listens, for the sound of leather on skin, of bone on tile, the sound of violence dampened by this quiet rain.

 

 

“Doryeonnim, your tea,” the old woman says, quietly placing a tray on his nightstand.

“Thank you, halmeoni,” he replies absently, sniffling and burrowing into his blankets. His whole body hurts. The old woman shuffles closer and presses the back of one hand to his forehead. It feels foreign. Wrinkly and bony and not the smooth skin he was expecting.

She hums thoughtfully.

“It’s better, I think,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” he says, a shiver going through his body. And he really is. It’s just a cold. Nothing big. No need for anyone to worry.

She hums again. “Shall I call the doctor again?”

“No, I’m really alright,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering closed. He just wants to sleep it off. “You can leave.”

She bows, and leaves him to sleep, and he’s just drifting off when another knock wakes him. The light outside has faded to soft evening, and his scrambled mind needs a moment to focus.

“Come in,” he calls, his voice thick and raspy.

The door creaks open and clicks shut again, light footsteps padding in. He blinks up into darkness.

“Hi.”

It’s Jaehyun’s voice.

“Go away,” he mumbles. “You’ll catch a cold, too.”

“I have incredible immunity,” Jaehyun replies, sidling up to the bed. “Can I sit?”

Taeyong hums noncommittally, but the bed dips under Jaehyun’s weight and he feels a cold hand on his forehead. “I’m okay,” he croaks. Nothing to worry anyone over.

“You’re burning,” Jaehyun says, and Taeyong shrugs. No big deal, just a cold.

Moments slip by in silence, and Taeyong doesn’t have the energy to change that.

“I brought your watch. You left it,” he says, and Taeyong hums out his gratitude. “And I just thought you might be bored. You’ve been up here all by yourself all day.”

“I’m okay,” he says again, but he bites back a smile.

 “My father used to tell me stories and buy me candy when I’d get sick, and he’d make these toys. They were really ugly, but that was nice, I liked them.”

Taeyong chuckles, and regrets it immediately because his ribs hurt from yesterday’s beating, and now he’s gone and caught a cold to top that, and he bursts into a fit of coughing. Jaehyun tuts and pats him on the back till he falls silent again.

“Your father seems awful.”

Taeyong blinks again, and sits up slowly. “Excuse me?” he says fixing Jaehyun with a look.

“I’m just saying. He hits you. And you’re sick and halmi says he hasn’t come to see you. That’s bad,” he says with a shrug. His eyes never leaving his face.

Taeyong just sits there staring at the younger boy, shocked out of his mind.

“You can’t talk about him like that,” he says.

“Sorry,” Jaehyun mumbles. “But my father isn’t like this at all. He used to tell me you should never hit children because that’s a sin, and sins are pretty bad.”

Taeyong swallows down a painful lump in his throat. “He’s just, you don’t know anything, he wasn’t always like this,” he says, leaning back into the pillows and willing himself not to think of smooth hands checking his fever. “Before…”

“Your mother?” Jaehyun asks softly.

Taeyong doesn’t reply, his face hot. He can feel tears welling in his eyes and he laughs at himself, blinks furiously till his tears subside.

He refuses to admit that he’s hurt by the fact that his father hasn’t come to see him. It’s just a cold, nothing to worry about, no need for anyone to worry, why would his father come see him over this?

He refuses to remember what his mother’s embrace felt like, when he was a child, when he had a cold, when she’d hold him and rock him back and forth and feed him porridge and tell him stories and his father would buy  him candy and toys and someone cared for him. No healing welts on his skin, no bruises, no broken glasses with the sick smell of good scotch on the library floor.

Just a cold, no need to be a baby about it. He sniffles.

“My father used to say that people get sad when they get sick, and they need big old hugs,” Jaehyun says.

“I don’t,” he chokes out defiantly.

“It helps,” Jaehyun says lightly, leaning over and wrapping his arms around Taeyong. “I know it’s weird but just go with it.”

Taeyong stiffens for a moment, it’s strange that this young boy is offering him the kind of comfort his mother’s arms held, a kind of comfort he hasn’t felt in two years now, and he’s shocked by it. He lets himself relax a little, melt in his arms. His friend? That’s what he said to that lanky kid, Joon Jae.

“Do you miss her?”

Taeyong nods, and he can’t hold back a sob, and the skinny arms around him only tighten.

_Don’t talk to him like that, you don’t know him, he’s my friend._

“Jaehyun,” he whispers, and the younger hums. “Thank you. For what you said to Joon Jae, for sticking up for me. And for coming up here.”

“That’s what friends do.”

 

“Jaehyun!” he calls, running happily through the fresh snow on the dirt path. It’s a little gross, it’s very slippery, the sort of sludge that’s forming. But he’s so terribly excited about having woken up to a blanket of snow on a Sunday morning, and he wants to do something about it, roll around in it, push Jaehyun around and make him slip, he wants to ball it up and throw it at Jaehyun and laugh and make him laugh.

“Jung Jaehyun,” he calls again, bounding up to the outhouse, knocking on his door.

Jaehyun answers the door, his eyes scrunched shut and his hair sticking out in all directions.

“What,” he says flatly.

“Open your eyes, stupid,” Taeyong says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Get dressed, let’s go!”

“Go where?” he grumbles, opening one eye and squinting around, and Taeyong watches in amusement as his other eye opens and his mouth falls open in amazement as he looks around.

“I don’t know,” Taeyong says. “Around.”

“Around sounds good,” Jaehyun mumbles, gaping at the layer of snow that covers the ground. “I’ll just be a second.”

The door slams in Taeyong’s face and he waits patiently, listening to the sounds of Jaehyun getting dressed, clothes rustling and a buckle being clasped, a toe stubbed, a muttered curse. He chuckles.

 

Two sets of footprints are left in the snow, and the orchard echoes with the sounds of two boys slipping all over the place and laughing raucously, tugging at low hanging branches till they yield and drop boat loads of snow onto each other.

A snowball gets Jaehyun straight in the ribs and knocks the air right out of him. His face, shock, betrayal, revenge. Taeyong laughs long and hard till another flies through the air and gets the back of Taeyong’s neck, trickling freezing cold down his shirt.

He squirms and laughs till he can’t breathe.

An argument, when Taeyong discovers that Jaehyun doesn’t have gloves, that he’s been using his pockets to warm his hands up, and he peels off his own gloves, thick, woolen, dark grey, and hands them to the younger.

“No. Then you’ll be cold. This is dumb,” he says with a dismissive wave.

“I can take cold,” Taeyong says firmly, flapping the gloves at the younger.

“That’s what you said about rain, and I swear you were sick for half the monsoon.”

“Stop being a brat and take the damn gloves.”

“You can’t make me.”

 

When they return to the kitchen, frozen solid, wet and shivering, leaving wet, muddy footprints behind them, they huddle over the stove and warm their hands by the fire. Jaehyun’s halmi has a pot of stew on, bubbling steadily, the soothing sounds of home cooked meals, the smell of pepper and boiled potatoes and butter. Taeyong looks up at Jaehyun, with his one gloved hand, his damp hair, his pink cheeks, peering into the pot as if he could already taste it. It’s just so terribly warm. The yellow glow of the kitchen light, the fire, his friend.

He looks down at his own hands, one gloved, one frozen.

That’s fair, they had decided. You wear one, I’ll wear one. Children settling arguments.

He sighs, content, and his ribs hurt, from laughing all morning.

 

 

**1945, Seoul.**

Taeyong is lying on his back in the orchard. He scrunches up his face. The sun is dazzling bright in the little windows of sky he sees through the leaves and branches of the apple trees. The days are hot again, long again, like the first time he met Jaehyun. He blinks sleepily, almost dozing off.

“Hey, hyung.”

He hums lazily.

“You ever kissed anyone?”

Taeyong’s eyebrows shoot up, and he turns his head to look at Jaehyun, lying in the grass beside him. He’s staring straight up at the branches above them, his mouth twisted a little in a way that makes his dimple just show, his hands idly tearing blades of grass to bits.

“Why do you ask?” he says, an embarrassingly shy flush to his cheeks that he’d gladly blame on the heat.

“Joon Jae hyung has found a girl,” he reports sulkily. “He said he kissed her. And she tastes like strawberries.”

“Strawberries?” Taeyong laughs.

“He must be lying, right?”

“I wouldn’t know what girls taste like, Jaehyun, I’ve never kissed anyone.”

Jaehyun turns, all sleepy eyes and amazement. “Really?” he says.

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don’t know, you’re handsome,” he mumbles. “I figured you’d get all the girls.”

Taeyong can feel his face warming. It’s not like that’s the first time he’s heard it, and it’s not like he’s unaware of the fact that he’s good looking. It’s just that he’s never heard the words from Jaehyun’s mouth, and somehow it affects him more than when the old ladies at his father’s dinner parties say it, or when his aunts squeeze his cheeks at family get-togethers, or even when the boys at school call him pretty boy when they talk about him. Gets his heart racing, his ears burning.

He’s been staring stupidly for a while, he realizes. He should say something, he realizes.

“I go to an all-boys school,” he points out flatly. “What girls?”

“Fair point,” Jaehyun says, turning back to the sky.

Taeyong still watches him, the way his chest rises and falls with every steady breath, the way his eyelids dip lazily, dancing on the precipice of sleep, his lashes splaying over pale skin, and he wonders if anyone has been this close to Jaehyun, close enough to see his lashes and the light sheen on the skin of his cheeks and the delicate curve of his generous smile.

“Have you?” Taeyong asks softly. “Kissed anyone?”

Jaehyuns eyes open, and he turns back to Taeyong. “No,” he says, holding Taeyong’s gaze.

Taeyong wonders if he’s the only one left breathless in that moment, if Jaehyun is as affected as he is.

“I don’t see the big deal,” he says again. “I mean it can’t be that hard to get a kiss. Just grab her by the waist and plant one on her lips.”

“And she’s just going to let you?” he asks, amused, glad that he’s found his voice again.

“Of course,” Jaehyun replies, his face twisting from that open, honest, vulnerable thing to a cocky little smirk. “Who can resist this face?”

Taeyong bursts into laughter. “Shut up, Jaehyun,” he chuckles. “You’d probably miss her lips altogether, you klutz.”

Jaehyun gets up onto his knees in pretend anger and straddles Taeyong’s chest, pressing a fistful of grass to Taeyong’s lips.

“Look who didn’t miss,” he declares gleefully, giving in to throaty laughter.

Taeyong is left sputtering, laughing, trying to get leaves out of his mouth. Jaehyun’s heavy weight remains on his chest, broader than the first time they met, almost as tall as Taeyong now, the sun bright and harsh behind his head and his soft hair catches it just right, almost as bright as his smile and his dimples, and Taeyong is rendered breathless all over again.

“Let’s do something,” Jaehyun says, still sitting on his chest. “We could run out and buy groceries for halmi? That way we could walk around the market for a bit and find something to do.”

“I don’t know if I should,” Taeyong says, his fingers picking anxiously at a fold of fabric in Jaehyun’s shorts. “I don’t think abeoji would approve.”

“He won’t find out,” Jaehyun says, certain.

Taeyong looks up, half expecting the now familiar half-smile to say he’s joking, but he looks entirely sincere, eager, excited at the prospect of going to the market with Taeyong, and that’s just so sweet, he smiles involuntarily. He’s nodding his head before he knows what he’s doing.

It’s only when Jaehyun jumps off his chest and tells him how much fun they’re going to have that Taeyong begins to realize that he said yes.

His stomach twists with anxiousness, what if his father comes home and finds out, what if he gets mad, what if he gets hurt, but Jaehyun squeezes his elbow and promises something.

“I’ll make sure you’re back safe,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

And Taeyong chooses to believe him.

 

It’s only when they’re walking down the street with their bellies full of patbingsu and their pockets full of red bean buns that he begins to realize that Jaehyun wasn’t kidding. That wandering aimlessly down the street and falling into spontaneous games of football every time they find a crushed tin can or a pebble to kick around is fun. That patbingsu on summer afternoons is fun. That the ahjumma at the bakery is fun. That Jaehyun is fun.

 

It’s only when Jaehyun throws an arm over Taeyong’s shoulder as they walk back to the house that he begins to realize how _happy_ he is.

 

 

“What’s this mean?” Jaehyun says, pointing out a character he doesn’t understand.

“Subversion,” Taeyong supplies after a fleeting glance at the newspaper Jaehyun is reading out loud. He has been practicing his hanja every evening by reading old newspapers and Taeyong’s old books and asking Taeyong to help when he gets stuck on something.

“What’s that?” he says, scribbling the word down in his notebook.

“When you undermine something.”

“Ah,” Jaehyun says, notes that down quickly and continues. “ _In the context of the signing of…_ what’s this?”

“Armistice. It’s like an agreement to stop the war.”

“Okay,” Jaehyun says, and returns to the paper. “ _Following the declaration of war on Japan, Soviet troops have landed at Wonsan as of August 14th…_ are the Russians invading us?”

“No, but the Americans are. I heard it on the radio this morning. Japan is going to surrender and we might be taken over by them. Peacefully. The Russians are only taking the North.”

“The 38th parallel…” Jaehyun mumbles as if remembering something.

“That’ll be the dividing line, yes,” he says.

“Pyongyang is going to be in a whole other country now?” he says, appalled.

“It’s only temporary, don’t worry,” Taeyong says, smiling, eyes trained on his writing.

“That sounds horrible. Will we have to learn English?”

Taeyong chuckles. “We’ll find out, soon enough, now won’t we?” he says, finishing his copy work for the day and shutting his book with a tired sigh. “They’ll be coming soon. The American army.”

“I want to see them,” Jaehyun says, excitedly leaning forward in his chair. “I heard they’re huge.”

Taeyong smiles. “We’ll go see them,” he says.

 

 

“Hyung let’s go, let’s go!” Jaehyun whispers excitedly, pushing him along through the crowd.

Children in khaki shorts and white shirts, old men and women. Half of Seoul is on the streets on a September morning, the leaves on the trees just changing, and he’s here being jostled by the milling crowd, packed on the pavements, watching for the American troops. There’s a Nation’s curiosity in the air, a people’s fear of a foreign power, something big, something from the papers, something that’ll soon be part of their every day.

Jaehyun’s arm is draped over his shoulder, holding him close in the crowd that’s formed.

They hear it in the distance, the rhythm of marching men, and excitement crackles in the air around him. He leans forward with Jaehyun, just as they turn the corner. The first thing he thinks is _tall, so tall, so many of them._

File after file marches past, in green-brown uniforms, pink and sweating, barely sparing them a glance.

“They’re really white,” Jaehyun whispers into his ear, and they share a quiet laugh, the briefest break in their awestruck silence.

 There are Korean men, too, wheeling carts filled with something he can’t see, covered with gunny bags and tarpaulin, and one wiry white man standing on the other side of the marching soldiers, guiding them the right way, bellowing instructions Taeyong doesn’t understand.

A breeze lifts the edge of one faded yellow tarp, and he sees what’s underneath. Guns. Just guns. Carts and carts full of gleaming black guns, and a shiver runs down Taeyong’s back, the smile slipping from his face, a strange uneasiness twisting his insides.

“You want to head back now?” he whispers to Jaehyun.

“Yeah, sure,” Jaehyun says, and as they squeeze through the crowds and through the winding road back home, he can’t help but wonder who they’d use them against. He can’t stop himself thinking.

_What if they just chose to stay?_

 

 

“Broader,” Taeyong says, when the tailor holds the tape to his shoulders. The wiry old man slides his finger a little further along the tape, squinting down through his gold rimmed glasses to read the small numbers.

“A little more, please,” Taeyong says.

The man looks up at him, and raises an eyebrow. “That might be a bit loose on you,” he says, sounding unconvinced.

“I know,” he replies. “But I’d like it like that.”

The man looks at him, perplexed, and Taeyong grins at him. He can’t explain to him that his old shirts go to Jaehyun, and Jaehyun is built broader than him already, so the shirts end up splitting at the seams when he moves around too much. He can’t tell him that when the time comes for him to hand these shirts down, he wants them to fit Jaehyun well.

He can’t tell him why, but he just grins again and tells him to cut his trousers a little longer than needed, to hem the extra fabric in. He doesn’t say that it’s because Jaehyun is growing taller at a mile a minute, it’s so he can let the extra fabric down and have pants that are long enough for him, not flapping at his ankles stupidly.

He can’t tell him why, but he wants to care for Jaehyun.

 

 

**1946, Seoul.**

“Hyung,” Jaehyun says, barreling into Taeyong’s room and settling down on Taeyong’s desk excitedly.

Taeyong looks up from his work to check the wall clock.

Schools had been shut down in the confusion following the end of the war, the Japanese surrender, the Russian occupation of the North, the American occupation of the South, but as soon as the Americans came, they reopened everything, only for it to be called off all over again when the protests began. Now he’s homeschooled, the tutor comes in the morning, teaches him for a few hours, and his standing instructions are to spend the day studying and finishing all his reading.

But his father goes out, every day at five, and that means he drops his study material the moment he hears the front door creak and runs off to spend time with Jaehyun till the man comes home again sometime at night.

“It’s not five yet,” he says, puzzled.

“I know, but your father just went out somewhere, and look what I have,” Jaehyun says, holding out a bundled up handkerchief and peeling it open. Three candy drops sit in the middle of the white cloth, staining the cloth with smears of pink and green and yellow. They look sticky, probably from the moisture in the air since it started raining, the oppressive sort of humidity that forced him to throw his bay windows wide open to let some air in.

Taeyong raises his eyebrows and puts his pen down.

“Candy?” he says.

“The Americans gave it to me,” Jaehyun replies, a happy sort of twinkle in his eye. “It’s from their country.”

“Is that what they’re doing in our country,” he mumbles. “Standing on street corners handing out candy?”

“They were being nice. And they’re so tall and handsome. This one even had blue eyes!”

Taeyong chuckles. “Is it good?” he asks.

The younger shrugs. “I don’t know, haven’t tried it yet. I wanted you to have it, too,” he says. “I think it’s going to be amazing! Real exotic.”

Taeyong smiles and reaches for one. “Which one do you want?” he asks.

“Pink.”

He smiles and picks up the yellow candy while Jaehyun pops the pink one into his mouth.

“Strawberry,” Jaehyun says with a blissful smile.

“Lemon,” Taeyong replies, scrunching up his nose.

 A moment passes in silence while they suck on their sweets. Jaehyun squints. Taeyong tilts his head.

Jaehyun hums, seemingly perplexed. Taeyong nods, concurring.

“It takes just like our candy.”

“How disappointing.”

“Hmph.”

A low creak sounds out from somewhere downstairs, and both boys freeze. Taeyong’s eyes widen.

“You said he left!” Taeyong whispers.

“I thought he left!”

“He’s coming up.”

“I should go,” Jaehyun whispers back, chewing on his lip and jumping off the table.

“No, you can’t take the stairs, he’ll see you!” Taeyong says frantically, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

“Okay, what do I do?” the younger says, worriedly looking from Taeyong to the bedroom door and back again.

“Hide!”

“Where?”

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs echo down the hall.

“Find a spot, oh my god!”

“Alright, shit, okay,” Jaehyun mutters, dropping to the floor and rolling under the bed. Taeyong twists in his chair to see.

“I can see you, stupid!” Taeyong says, his heart hammering, and Jaehyun rolls back out and jumps to his feet.

“Shit… where? There!” he says, running for the open window.

“Are you mad!” Taeyong hisses, almost getting to his feet, but he’s too late, and Jaehyun already has one leg out and then half his body out, and then he doesn’t have time to think because his bedroom door is opening.

He picks up his pen hurriedly and stands to greet his father.

He stands in the open doorway, regarding him carefully. “Did I hear you talking to someone in here?”

“No, abeoji, I was just reading out loud,” he stammers, looking up at his father with his heart pounding in his ears. He could almost see it happening. I told you to study, didn’t I, and his open palm against his cheek, he could almost feel the bruise blooming in his skin.

“Alright,” the man says, after a long moment. “Carry on.”

He turns and closes the door behind him, and Taeyong’s shoulders slump with relief for just a moment before he remembers that Jaehyun just jumped out of the window and his eyes widen in horror.

He rushes to the window, his knees on the bay, his hand on the sill and he looks out. Jaehyun is getting to his feet, dusting grass off his pants and kicking mud off his shoes and groaning and rubbing his shoulder. He waves frantically to get his attention, and the boy looks up.

“Are you okay?” he mouths.

Jaehyun sticks a thumb out, a dumb grin on his face.

“Are you?” he mouths back.

Taeyong nods.

The sun shines down on this muddy, grassy boy with a smile on his face and a white kerchief in hand, stained green and pink and yellow. Not a care in the world, not in the least bit bothered that he just launched himself out of a first floor bedroom window and onto a wet lawn.

Taeyong slaps a hand across his face and sighs, his chest filled with a sort of warmth, a sort of fluffy, cloudy, cotton candy warmth, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a dumb smile off his face.

 

 

Jaehyun sits cross legged on the floor, his eyes dry and his nose burning, his throat hot, his chest hot.

“He’s lying,” he chokes out, fingers clutching tightly at the canvas bag in his lap.

“My child, I’m afraid…”

“He said he’d come back when he’s made money! This can’t be true, I’m sure…”

“Jaehyun,” his grandmother says kindly, her eyes glassy with tears. “He’s gone now. There is nothing we can do but pray for his soul, do you understand me?”

“No,” he says, shaking head stubbornly.

No, no, no, a letter came just three months ago, the letter said father was fine, that he misses us, that he’ll come back as soon as possible, it can’t be.

“You heard him, child,” she says again, her hand stroking gently through his hair. “My son is gone. Your father is gone.”

All the muscles in his chest tighten, and the air is knocked out of his lungs, some strange choked sound leaving his lips, a grief he has never felt, primal, raw. She leans close, and gather him in her arms, holds him close for a few long moments, but he stays stock still. He can’t begin to process what he’s feeling.

He doesn’t know when she leaves or how long he stays sitting there before willing himself to unzip the bag. A few shirts and trousers, a shaving kit, a pair of worn out shoes, the leftovers of his father’s life. They smell like him.

His whole body crumbles, his arms wrapping around the bag, the shirts, the shoes, and he curls into himself. He feels the faded cloth pressed against his face turn wet, his body wracked with shudders. His father is gone.

That horrible fucking man who knocked on their door this morning and told them he used to work in the same factory as his father in Japan. That he died in a factory accident. That he didn’t have time to write to them about his passing because he had to leave Japan. That he brought his belongings. That they burned his body in Japan.

His father is gone.

The door slides open, hurried footsteps nearing, the sound of knees hitting the floor beside him, arms wrapping around his torso and he’s being pulled against a firm chest. Taeyong’s smell surrounds him.

“I’m so sorry, Jaehyun, god, I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Jaehyun opens his mouth, to say something, to tell him he feels like his world has ended, maybe just to scream, but no sound comes out, just a soundless sob, soundless grief, tears soaking Taeyong’s shirt.

He’s held like that, till he falls asleep, sobs traded for hiccups, till he falls asleep in Taeyong’s arms.

He dreams, long and convoluted, a quiet gushing stream, delicate flowers, pale pink and yellow. Taeyong, his arms around him, his voice whispering in his ear _, I know it hurts, my love, my poet, I know, but you must be brave._

A flickering candle, the whisper of paper.

The smell of lavender, smooth silk against his palms, his face held in slim, bony hands.

_I know, my love, but I’ll never leave you._

When he wakes up, the whole room is dark, and Taeyong’s arms are still secure around him. He shifts, and Taeyong relaxes his embrace. “You’re awake,” he says softly.

“You’re still here,” he says, staring at him.

Taeyong frowns a little. “Of course,” he says.

Jaehyun stays silent, too tired to say anything, but he’s more in control of himself than before, and for that he’s glad. A sort of empty silence has taken its place in his chest.

“Eat something,” Taeyong says softly, and he shakes his head.

“Jaehyun…”

“Is this what it felt like?” he asks. “When you lost your mother?”

Taeyong looks taken aback, at a loss for words.

“I just feel so…”

“Alone,” Taeyong finishes.

Jaehyun nods, fresh tears pricking at his eyes, and Taeyong only moves closer, his hands cupping Jaehyun’s face, slim and bony, and Jaehyun’s hands fist in Taeyong’s shirt sleeves. His thumbs wipe at Jaehyun’s face gently.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers. “I will never mean to you what he meant to you, but you’ll always have me, Jaehyun. I know, I know it hurts, but I’ll never leave you.”

Jaehyun looks at him, his earnest eyes, so big and beautiful, glimmering, holding all the comfort the world has to give him, and he finds that he wants to believe him. He’ll never be alone. As long as Taeyong is alive, he’ll never be alone.

“You promise?” he says.

Taeyong smiles. Something worlds away from anything he has known all his life. Soft, so soft. His heart calms, and the cold drains from his bones.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys I'm backkk. Sorry about the wait. It's just so much harder writing this lifetime than it is writing Joseon lol. I know it's slow right now but enjoy it while it lasts because the angst train is coming in fast hehehe  
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments I love you very much and also wtfff cherry bomb is so fucking good.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys thank you so much for your support!  
> I just wanted to clarify a few terms:  
> Yangban: upper class  
> Seowon: school  
> Jeogori: overcoat  
> Gwanghuimun: one of the eight gates in the fortress wall of seoul i.e. an entrance to the city  
> Gwanghamun: one of the gateways of the gyeongbokgung palace  
> Saengwonsi: one of two state examinations  
> Seonggyungwan: the highest center for education in Joseon. I've taken a few liberties with the ages, because technically students attend Seowon till they're almost twenty and then give the state exam, but Jaehyun is around sixteen-seventeen when he takes the state exam.

**102 nd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

“Your highness, you must eat something.”

Taeyong breaks out of his reverie, tearing his gaze away from the clear night sky framed in his window, presses his hands to his burning cheeks and looks over at Choi Jin.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

“Your dinner,” he repeats.

“Ah yes, right,” he says, straightening up and turning his attention back to the assorted dishes laid out before him.

“Are you unwell, your highness?” Choi Jin asks worriedly.

“No, no, I’m just… tired,” he responds. He isn’t. He just misses Gongju. He’s been back for barely a day and he already misses Gongju to death. He misses Jaehyun to death. His thoughts wander in every spare moment to that early morning before he left, to that kiss. And every time his cheeks burn the same shade of red. “It was such an eventful trip,” he muses.

“It certainly was,” Choi Jin replies with a small smile. “I cannot thank you enough for letting me see my family.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Choi Jin,” Taeyong says softly, happy that that young palace eunuch was allowed to leave the palace with them, if only for a few days, happy that he could help him, if only a little.

“My sisters were so happy to see me,” he says. “The youngest has adopted a mouse in my absence, and named it Choi Jin.”

Taeyong chuckles softly and leans over, silver chopsticks in hand, prodding at the cured meat on a bronze platter.

“How many sisters do you have?” he asks, shifting a little. His injured leg has started falling asleep in this awkward position, propped up on a cushion.

“Three, your highness. Six, nine, and eleven years old,” he reports. “I just… I cannot thank you enough. I was able to take them to the markets, my sisters and my mother, and buy them new clothes. It was your graciousness that made that possible for me.”

“Choi Jin, please,” he says, embarrassed. “Please stop thanking me and tell me all about your family and the market and your mouse friend.”

“They were ecstatic, your highness,” he laughs. “More so when they saw your mother, they could not stop talking about her beauty and grace, and I told them if they ever saw you…”

“My mother?” Taeyong cuts in, confused.

“Yes, her highness was there.”

“At the market? Near your village?” he asks. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am certain, your highness, it was your mother. She was dressed in plain clothes, but I could never mistake her for anyone else. Your faces are much the same, and I do know your face like the back of my hand.”

“She was there all alone?”

“No, your highness, I only saw her briefly, from a distance but she was accompanied. I thought she would not require my assistance and I went about my business. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“No, that’s not it, I was just wondering what she was doing there,” he muses. He regards Choi Jin carefully for a moment. “Perhaps she was looking for something that Gongju’s markets didn’t have,” he says.

He knows that doesn’t sound quite right, but there’s no need to discuss his doubts with a palace eunuch, he decides, and there’s no need to give the impression that his relationship with his mother is weak. No need for gossip.

He doesn’t know what it could have been about, or when in that fortnight she left Gongju, or even why he was not made aware of this before. He supposes it’s possible that he was so caught up in spending time with Jaehyun, that it slipped his mind to ask his mother how she was spending her days. He doesn’t know, he realizes, what she did with her time in Gongju. He doesn’t know, but there’s something there for him to find out.

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Gongju.**

Jaehyun stares at the paper on his desk. It has been a while since Taeyong left, and he misses him, can’t stop thinking about the soft press of his mouth and the safe grip of his slim hands. He wants to feel it again. Those lips and those hands. He wants to hear his voice, too, but he can’t. Not yet.

He could try a letter, he thinks. For now, be satisfied with a folded piece of paper, a few words written in his hand, almost his voice.

And now he’s in a fix.

What should he say?

How should he even address him?

Hyungnim?

Your highness?

My dearest, my love, my moon and stars?

He flushes. How terribly embarrassing, he thinks. How awfully cringe-worthy. All the dead poets in the world would turn in their graves and heave a tired sigh if he put those words on paper, just another lovesick fool.

 _Your highness_ , he begins.

_I find myself in the very plight that strikes fear in the hearts of men, scholars and poets and lovesick fools alike: a peculiar state of tongue tie. What a terrible bane, your highness, I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemies._

_Can you imagine? I have a world and more in my heart and mind that I wish to share with you, and I simply cannot find the words. A poet without words, your highness, what an awful affliction._

_I do hope you are still in possession of your words, and that you would share some with this wretched poet you have left behind, speechless and tongue-tied._

_I do hope you are safe and that you are healthy._

_Yours,_

_Jaehyun._

 

Two weeks slip by before he receives a reply.

In the privacy of his chamber, in flickering orange candlelight, just before he sleeps, he retrieves the letter from his cupboard, where he’d stowed it in a rush earlier that day. His hands tremble with nerves when he reaches into the yellow silk envelope and retrieves Taeyong’s letter. His hands tremble when unfolds the thin paper, when he takes in those familiar brush strokes, deliberately slow.

_My dearest poet,_

_My friend, my Jaehyun, I am healthy and safe._

_As for you, I should like to believe that your words have abandoned you since I stole the very breath from your lips. With how deeply we conversed before I left._

Jaehyun chuckles quietly. Conversed, indeed.

_Do not worry, poet, your words are safe in my hands, in my heart, in my mind, and I will treasure them so. Your stolen breath I will return the next time we meet, and we may converse again to our hearts’ content, of the world in your heart and the fears in mine._

_Yours,_

_Taeyong._

Jaehyun smiles, truer and happier than he has ever been before. He folds it again in thirds, then slips it back into the yellow silk, patiently, precisely, as if he’s holding something delicate in his hands, something priceless. He blows out his candle and settles down in the bedding laid out on his floor. Yellow silk pressed to his chest, a lover’s touch, Taeyong’s words whispered against his skin to soothe the longing in his heart.

 

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Taeyong smiles at the paper in his hands.

_…until we meet again, your highness._

His heart flutters, and he sets the paper down on his desk. He wants to tell Jaehyun how badly he wishes to see him, how terribly distracting he is, how hard it is to live here waiting for the day Jaehyun comes to Hanyang. He picks up his brush.

_Jaehyun,_

_Do you remember the Sijo you read to me in the library that day?_

_I find myself thinking about it, every day, I think about –_

Choi Jin’s voice calls from the door.

“Her highness, Royal Consort Ji Soo has arrived,” he says.

The doors slide open, and his mother steps in, ever elegant, a pleasant smile on her face.

His heart stops, and he quickly folds the paper in half to cover what he wrote. He knows, on the surface it sounds like he is only remembering and appreciating poetry, but he also knows his mother can read him. One look at his face and she would know there’s more to that letter than he wants to let on. He gets to his feet so he can greet her appropriately.

“Mother, you did not tell me you would be coming,” he says, and he knows he isn’t doing a very good job of hiding the momentary panic in his voice, the distracted flick of his gaze to the blots of wet ink his words must have become.

“I know,” she says. “I apologize for barging in, but today I felt like I must see my son’s handsome face. It is quiet and lonely in my quarters. Would you spare me a few minutes and a cup of tea?”

He smiles. “Of course, mother,” he says, gesturing for her to take a seat.

She settles down on the cushion, delicately arranging her skirts around her with some implacable benign smile. He kneels across from her, his hand uncomfortably resting on the folded paper, carefully studying her expression.

“How are you, mother? Tell me about your days.”

“I am keeping well, thank you for asking, dearest. I am almost finished with my needlework, and you can be sure that I will present it to you on your birthday,” she says.

“Thank you, mother, I will cherish it dearly,” he says, smiling.

“I spoke with the scholars today,” she says. She picks at something invisible on the silk skirt. “I had requested a few books from the study hall, to pass the time, and wonderful man, that teacher Shin Donghyuk, he brought it by. He stayed for a while, spoke at great length about you.”

“And what has he said?” he asks.

“That you are brilliant, that you have the intellect, the blood, the sinew of a royal.”

He watches her, somehow rattled, unconvinced of the innocence of that statement. He studies her, the way her small hands smooth out the wrinkles in skirt. She looks up, finally, pins him down with her gaze.

“That you are distracted,” she says.

He stares at her for a moment, a little taken aback. “Are they not satisfied with my performance?” he asks when he’s found his voice.

“Oh, my son, you are leagues above the others,” she says pleasantly. “They are not dissatisfied, merely concerned. You must know, you must have learnt by now that the palace is unkind. A moment of distraction and you are stomped out, swallowed whole. Nothing is as it seems, you must know that now?”

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but his jaw clenches, his fingers curling a little, nails scratching at the smooth wooden surface of his desk.

Nothing is as it seems, watch your back, don’t stumble now, don’t complain, do what they tell you to do and do it well, I promise it will pay off. I promise he will notice, he will accept you, own you as his son if you prove you are good enough. He is tired of this.

“I have… given nothing but my best, mother,” he says softly.

“Would you say the scholars are mistaken, then?” she says. Her soft smile hides her insinuations, but he knows how they lurk beneath the surface.

“I have put in my hours,” he says again.

“My young prince, I would not accuse you of lying to your own mother,” she says. “I only convey their concerns.”

She would not accuse him, and yet she accuses him.

 “Their concerns are baseless,” he says firmly.

 “If you so insist, so it must be,” she says.

The sound of the door sliding open breaks the tension in the air. Choi Jin shuffles in with a wooden tray table and their tea. Taeyong watches him set the table and cups for them, watches him pour the tea into his mother’s cup, listens for the soothing sound of tea poured by a skilled hand. He feels something uncomfortable in his chest, tight and writhing, and it feels a bit like resentment. It catches him by surprise.

“Choi Jin, you may take your leave,” he says quietly, and his eyes stay on the empty cup in front of him even as Choi Jin bows and leaves. He eases his hand out to lay it flat against the table. His fingers trail softly over the patterned blue silk envelope that holds Jaehyun’s letter, as if soothing himself.

“I think of Gongju often these days,” he says. “Perhaps they are right, perhaps I am distracted.”

“It was a lovely trip,” she says. “But you must…”

“Did you enjoy Taejon, mother?” he asks, his gaze lifting to look at her face, to catch the tail end of fading shock, to see what lay behind her benign smile. A moment passes in silence.

“I did, very much,” she says.

“What did you do there?” he asks casually.

She smiles brighter, wider, trailing into a small laugh.

“My son,” she says. She leans over and takes the cup from in front of him, pours him another cup of tea. He watches the way she holds her sleeve out of the way, practiced ease. The soothing sound of tea poured by a skilled hand. “There are a few things I can teach you that your scholars cannot. One, never speak when you are ignorant. Two, never let your emotions get the better of you.”

“Mother, you…”

“Three,” she says, handing him the cup. “Distrust is stronger than steel.”

He looks at her quietly, his fingers tightening around his cup.

“It could tear a son from his own mother, it could sever the bond of blood, do you understand me?” she asks, still elegant, still pleasant. “Now, you must understand, Taeyong, that I will tell you what you need to know, and you must trust that it is for your own good.”

“Mother, I meant nothing by…”

“In much the same way, I will not ask you why one would fold a letter on wet ink.”

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Gongju.**

Jaehyun is buying flower cakes from the market when he hears a loud guffaw behind him. He pays no attention to it, only counting his yang and handing it to the vendor. Just as the parcel is placed in his hand, a boy falls heavily to the ground beside his feet. Jaehyun looks down in shock. The boy seems well dressed, bright silk robes, perhaps a yangban but he does not recognize him from Seowon.

He turns around hurriedly. Three commoner boys stand laughing at the one on the ground.

“What is this?” he demands, furious.

“My lord,” they say, straightening up, the smiles wiped off their faces, bowing deep.

“Why are you treating him so?” he asks again as the boy on the ground gets to his feet.

They look down, muttering something under their breath.

“Answer me,” he says, and he knows they cannot disobey a yangban.

“He is… he is a…”

Jaehyun sighs, turns to the lean boy dusting off his jeogori, staying one foot behind.

“What is your family?” he asks.

“My father is a blacksmith, my lord,” he says. He speaks like a commoner, and his father’s profession puts him among the commoners, but the way he dresses, and the elegance of his features, the softness of his hands and the fragrance of jasmine that clings to him screams yangban.

“I’m afraid I do not understand,” Jaehyun says.

“He has been taken by a lord in Taejon,” one of the boys says tartly.

That’s when it slides into place with a sickening twist. Taken by a lord, he has heard of this in hushed conversations. Of high ranking noblemen in the countryside taking boys, giving them food and shelter and fine clothes. Pretty, young boys.

He swallows thickly.

“Be gone,” he mutters at the three commoner boys and he watches them scurry away. He turns back to the boy standing behind him. “What is your name?”

“Dongjun, my lord,” he says.

“Dongjun, does that happen often?”

“Yes, sir. My lord.”

“Then I suppose it is my duty to walk with you to your destination till you are safe.”

“My lord, I cannot trouble you so, I will find my way, sir, thank you for your kindness.”

“Nonsense,” Jaehyun says, and is met with a dazzling smile, crinkled nose and pretty pink cheeks.

“Thank you, my lord, you are gracious,” he says, as they walk side by side, and Jaehyun just laughs stupidly.

A strained silence settles between them. Jaehyun’s mind is ticking, gushing, oddly silent. He feels like he ought to say something.

“My lord,” the boy says, after a few minutes pass, similarly strained. “You are curious, and that is fair. I will answer your questions if you would like to ask them.”

Jaehyun chuckles, surprised at how astute the boy’s observation is, a little more at ease. “Does he treat you well?” he asks, curious how a commoner boy would be treated in a lord’s household.

“He treats me like treasure,” Dongjun says. “He is kind, and showers me with affection.”

“Do you like being there?” he asks hesitantly.

“I do, my lord. I was terrified at first, I was unwilling when my father gave me to their house, but the lord is gentle, and he allows me to go anywhere and do anything as long as I return to him. And it feels as though my life has been lifted from the sewers, saved. He has saved me.”

“How… wonderful,” Jaehyun says, studying his face for anything that could say he is lying, but there is honesty in his face. “That is wonderful.”

“Of course, not everyone is as lucky as I am,” he says. “Not every man can be as kind as my lord.”

“And what… what do you…” he trails off, his cheeks burning red.

“What do I do for him?” Dongjun supplies easily. He has clearly had this conversation before.

“I apologize,” Jaehyun says, flustered. “That was uncouth of me.”

“No, my lord, it was honest,” Dongjun says. Another moment passes in silence before he speaks. “He beds me.”

Jaehyun almost chokes, but he takes a deep breath. “You are a boy,” he sputters. “He is a man… how, what?”

The boy chuckles heartily. “There is much you can do with a boy’s body, my lord,” he teases. “To make love to a man, you do not need a woman’s body, you only need a sanctuary for a man’s body, and I have what I need to take him in.”

“I… gods. Heaven above,” Jaehyun mutters. He knows he is blushing hard, and he knows why, the thought of pressing into Taeyong in the most intimate union plaguing his mind, burning hot under his skin, and he wants to ask how, how, how is that possible, but he does not. He swallows, takes a deep, calming breath.

“You are innocent, yet, my lord,” Dongjun says with a chuckle.

Jaehyun only burns redder.

They come to a stop by a street corner.

“Thank you, my lord, for delivering me safe to my father,” the boy says. “And know that I visit him every fortnight… if you need any more answers.”

Jaehyun smiles, keeps his gaze on his feet, nods in acknowledgment when the boy bows.

He walks back to his home, reigning his thoughts in, away from the trap of Taeyong’s body, of his mouth and his skin and the things he could do to him. Things he believed could never be done, only to find today that there is a world he does not know.

 

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Gongju.**

Taeyong’s hands fall away from his eyes, and he stops counting.

“I’m coming, young prince, you’d better be ready,” he calls out, and is met with silence.

He sighs. He’s quite tired, but Yi Yeok, the six year old prince, is unwilling to end their game. Taeyong doesn’t mind spending a few more minutes indulging him, he’s such a delight, really. The only innocent pleasure, the only unguarded interaction he’s allowed at the palace.

He trudges forward through the garden under the gentle evening sun, looking behind bushes and potted plants, behind tall, wooden pillars, too tired to be more enthusiastic. He’s just about to give up and call Yi Yeok back, when he sees a flash of purple silk through the bushes on his right. He grins.

He stalks forward quietly, with the intent of catching the young prince unawares, and tickling him to death. He crouches by the bushes, inches forward.

“Not here, someone will see…”

Taeyong stops dead. It’s a woman’s voice, hushed and desperate.

“Would you rather come to my chambers tonight?”

Taeyong flushes to tips of his ears and he scrambles to his feet, embarrassed at having interrupted something so private. He knows those voices, even in that muted whisper, there’s something familiar about them, but he doesn’t think it’s decent to look for names to match them.

“Walk past the palace eunuchs and tell them all you’ll be in my bed for the night,” the man says. “Will that suit you?”

Taeyong almost gasps. Whoever it is, is royalty. That much is clear. He takes a hurried step back, but a twig snaps under his feet and he freezes.

“Who’s there?” the man calls out, and Taeyong’s blood runs cold. That’s the voice of his eldest brother, Crown Prince Yeonsangun, and at the same time, with a sickening twist in his gut, he realizes where he’s heard the other voice.

Suk Hui, royal concubine, mother of the young prince Yi Yeok.

He turns to run, but Yi Yeok comes bounding in from his left, and his heart sinks. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening here, but he knows it’s not something for a young child to be involved in.

“Little Prince? Yi Yeok?” Yeonsangun calls out again, tentatively, as if trying his luck, and Taeyong can hear footsteps coming close.

“Hyungn…” the child begins to respond, but Taeyong slaps a hand over his mouth, grabs him around the waist and hoists him up into his arms. He hurries away till he turns the corner and lets him down gently when they’re a safe distance from the Crown Prince.

“Can you do me a favor, young prince?” he says quietly. “Can you run back to your chambers and wait for me there?”

The boy nods, puzzled by what’s happening.

“You must be very quiet, alright? It’s a game,” he says, and he nods again.

Taeyong smiles. “Go, now, quickly,” he says, watching the boy hurry away till he can’t see him anymore.

“Brother,” comes Crown Prince Yeonsangun’s voice from behind Taeyong. He turns around, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible, as if he didn’t just find out that his oldest brother has been bedding the king’s woman.

“Saeja,” he says with a smile, and bows low. He feigns surprise, feigns innocence. “What brings you here?”

“I might ask you the same,” he says. Taeyong thinks there’s a buried threat there somewhere.

“I was playing hide and seek with Prince Yi Yeok in the courtyard,” he says. “He tired of it soon, so he returned to his chambers, but the evening was so lovely, I thought I’d stay on to walk in the gardens.”

“I am wounded, brother, that you would spend hours with the young prince, and yet you haven’t been to see me since you returned,” Yeonsangun says. Casual, testing him.

His brother’s transgression is not something that he would bother himself with. Personally, he doesn’t care who lays with whom because he knows that love and lust come in many forms, and he is not one to pass judgement. He knows, because the press of Jaehyun’s lips still lingers on his mouth.

But he knows that what he heard in the gardens would sink the Crown Prince if it ever got out. He would be stripped of his title and the blemish would never leave his name, and that is something the Crown Prince would kill to prevent. That is precisely why he hopes the prince believes that Yi Yeok wasn’t in the garden with him, so the young boy would be safe.

“My quarters have doors, Saeja. They may not be as exquisite as yours, but I find that closed doors are much the same everywhere.”

His brother chuckles, but there is no mirth in it. His face resembles the king’s closely, strong in all its features, but something lurks harder than stone behind his eyes. “There is much to see in these gardens,” he says, casually pushing his robes aside, and Taeyong catches the glint of a blade in the folds of fabric.

“Of course,” Taeyong says, his voice steady, his chest boiling with anger. Would he have threatened that child, too, he wonders. “But the cobaea does not bloom tonight.”

The Crown Prince smiles. “The scholars were right,” he says. “You are no fool, brother.”

 

Taeyong arrives at his own quarters, tired and conflicted. He knows what he heard and saw, he knows Yeonsangun is profoundly wrong in his actions. He toys with the idea of telling the king. That would cut down the menace of the Crown Prince’s hold over the palace. Oust him, cut him to size, save the servants and the palace maids from his terror.

But he cannot. Yi Yeok’s mother would be dragged down in this. Her name would be stained and Yeok’s life would be ruined, and he cannot do that to that poor child, he thinks.

Doing nothing comes with its own dangers. He leaves Yeonsangun in this position of power. He leaves him to do as he pleases with both him and Yeok. He hopes it was enough that he established his willingness to be silent earlier that night.

He wishes he knew what to do, but he cannot even confide in his mother, for he fears that she would use it against Yeonsangun, and in doing so destroy Yeok’s future.

Even as Choi Jin readies him for bed, he is thinking. Worrying. For Yeok’s safety and his own.

He sighs and kneels at his desk for his evening reading. He is to memorize ten pages of the Treatise on Change. Absently, distractedly, he reads.

 _The first focus of society is marriage, then children_ , he reads. And for some reason that sticks uncomfortably in his chest. He pushes on.

_…the roles of man and woman are cosmically determined, unshakeable. Their distortion is unforgiveable, for to fail to beget children is the most unfilial of acts._

He stares at the page.

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Gongju.**

The letter lies open on Jaehyun’s desk. He runs his hands nervously over his thighs. This is the first letter Taeyong has sent in over two months, and he fears the current that runs beneath the black ink.

_Dearest Jaehyun,_

_There are days I long for simpler times, for the flowers by the stream and the honesty of our friendship. There are days I lie awake at night with something dark, monstrous, looming over my head. It grows with every passing day, my friend, it presses down on my throat in my sleep till I cannot breathe._

_I believe it is the entirety of life I have lived and every day I live wretchedly only augments the grasp it has on my throat._

_I fear I have lost so much to that darkness. The simplicity of an honest life. The innocence of our friendship. That oblivious bubble we lived in, happy, bright, honest. How ephemeral. I have lost it._

_I fear what my life is becoming._

_Undeniably, unforgivably, unscrupulously yours,_

_Taeyong._

He stares at the paper. He doesn’t know what he is trying to say. Does he mean he regrets the turn their relationship is taking? Or did something else happen, something that makes him wish for simpler times?

Some uncomfortable knot pulls tight in his stomach, a burning in his throat, a tremble in his hand.

He does not know.

 

 _Your highness,_ he writes.

_I fear that I do not understand what is plaguing your mind, and for that you must forgive me. I have failed my duty as your friend._

_However, in my limited understanding, I grasp that you feel like your innocence is slipping away from you. In what way, I imagine you cannot say in your letters._

_If you are troubled by what transpires around you, your highness, I would suggest in my ignorance that what you have lost is not innocence, but naivete. Know that however your circumstances change, what we hold between us will forever be bright, honest, and happy, a source of comfort for your tired mind. That will never change._

_If your thoughts are unclear, and your heart is unsure of the choices you are making, know that I believe you are the best of men, that you hold inside you infinite kindness, fairness, purity of heart, an innocence that is incorruptible. You may err, your highness, you are only human, but I trust that you know in your heart and your soul what is right and what is wrong._

_And know, my friend, that if I am the cause for this, for how you feel, know that I would do everything in my power to bring back those simple times. I cannot undo what is done, your highness, I cannot swallow words that have been said, I cannot change the past, but for you I would change the future. I would walk a thousand steps in any direction you point, till you look at me and see the life you wish for, simple, bright, honest, and innocent._

_For your happiness, I would._

_Yours,_

_Jaehyun._

 

He lets the ink dry, forcing his hands to stay steady when he finally folds his letter and slides it into an envelope.

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

A voice calls out, loud and foreign in the training ground.

“The Crown Prince has arrived!”

The boy Taeyong is fighting drops his sword and bows low. Taeyong turns to the source of the voice, sword lowered, chest heaving with the exertion of the fight. Yeonsangun stands there in his training robes, his eyes trained on Taeyong, some strange smile on his face.

The master supervising him hurries over to the Crown Prince’s side, bowing, flustered. He has never been here before, all his training conducted separately, by another master, brought in from Kaesong, just for the Crown Prince.

“Saeja, how may I serve you?” he asks, and Taeyong almost scoffs at his sycophancy.

“I thought I would come by and see how my brothers are faring,” he says. His eyes never leave Taeyong’s. “To see what you are teaching them.”

“Oh,” the man says dumbly. “Would you… like to watch them train, Saeja?”

“I would like to train with them today,” he says.

“As you wish, Saeja,” the master says, bowing again. When he straightens up, he beckons to Taeyong.

Taeyong flushes, painfully aware of all the eyes turning to him, all his senses wide awake. He steps forward and bows, mind flitting from thought to thought. Why is he here? What does he want? He cannot hurt me here, not in front of all these people, why is he here?

“Prince Taeyong.”

“Saeja,” Taeyong says. He tries to read something in Yeonsangun’s face but nothing is apparent. No agenda, no ulterior motive.

“Shall we begin, then? I fear formalities will only waste our time,” he says.

“As you wish, Saeja.”

The Crown Prince takes a moment to adjust his robes and take his sword in hand, and in that short moment, the master steps in close as if to tighten Taeyong’s belts, and he speaks lowly.

“Do not forget who he is,” he says. “When he strikes you down, stay down.”

That hushed reminder, fearful, that’s all it takes for the reality of the situation to dawn on Taeyong. The Crown Prince. He is fighting the Crown Prince. Irrespective of the fact that they are in training, striking the Crown Prince is a crime punishable by death. Exile at the very best.

His throat goes dry, and his fingers tighten around his sword. The master steps aside. Yeonsangun stalks close. Taeyong closes his eyes for a moment, to calm his ragged breathing, to bring his focus to the task at hand.

Defend, he thinks. Do not strike. Defend.

He opens his eyes again, slides a foot back in defensive stance and raises his sword. He keeps his eyes on Yeonsangun’s face, watching for every twitch and flicker, anything that could betray his next move. The whole field is shrouded in some thick, suffocating silence, like everyone present is holding their breath.

The Crown Prince strikes first, a slice through the air. Taeyong steps back, evades the blow. He watches the momentary lift of the corners of Yeonsangun’s mouth, a sort of perverse pleasure flickering in his eyes. He swallows thickly.

Another blow, a low sweep. He blocks it with his sword and steps aside.

“Will you not fight with heart, brother?” Yeonsangun goads.

“I will fight with my mind, Saeja,” Taeyong replies.

A quick jab to his left, Taeyong swerves away. Another high slash, blocked, thrust to his abdomen, deflected to the right, another, three steps back, another, he ducks down low, a slash at his ribs he could have avoided if he could just strike back but he cannot, so he feels the wooden sword cracking down against his body. He stumbles back.

His throat burns with frustration.

“Are you finished already?”

“No, Saeja.”

Sword up. Defend.

Blow after blow he avoids, and he can hear the whispering voices around them, see the gathering crowd out of the corner of his eye. No time for distraction. Blow after blow deflected, till he feels it come down hard on his back. He falls heavily to his knees.

Stand up. Defend.

Blow after blow rains down on him, but he keeps on going. He ducks again. A hand curls in the back of his collar, a knee slams into his face, dishonorable bastard, his lip splits open and metal floods his mouth. His sword slips from his hand and falls with a clatter when he is thrown to the ground. A heavy boot slams against the side of his face, shoves him down against the gravel.

He swallows down a cry of pain, uses his weight, his whole weight and some strength he did not know he had, and he slips away, scrambles away till his fingers curl around his sword. He digs the point into the ground, leans his weight heavily on it, gets to his feet. Red floods his right eye, blood from the gash in his forehead.

Sword up.

“Saeja,” someone says. Imploring.

“Stay back,” he bellows, his eyes narrowed, the effort of exertion clear in his face. “Are you finished brother?”

“No, Saeja,” Taeyong replies.

He has something to prove. He will not be stomped out, swallowed whole, he will not give in to this tyranny, he will not bend to his will. Even when he is thrown against a wall and the wooden shaft of his sword strikes hard, rattles his teeth and splits skin over bone, when he is thrown down and stepped on, he keeps on. Stand up, sword up. Defend.

Stand up, sword up, use your weight. He is tired. He has no finesse. He is losing his edge, use your weight, use your speed, twist away.

The Crown Prince falls to the ground, sprawled on his back, his sword clattering to the ground. He looks up at Taeyong, at the point of his sword thrust in his face. His eyes widen, in complete and utter disbelief. His hand scrambles for his sword, but Taeyong kicks it away.

“Guards!” Yeonsangun calls. “Arrest him, he struck the Crown Prince!”

“I have not,” Taeyong says. Calm, composed. “I have fought with my mind.”

“Guards, did you not hear? Arrest him!”

“Enough,” a voice calls from across the field.

Taeyong turns, half blind with the blood in his eye, ears ringing from the last blow, but he still knows the king’s voice.

“That is enough,” he repeats.

And Taeyong swears, he could swear that he meets his eye, that he looks him in the eye for the briefest of moments before he turns around to leave. His heart hammers, his eyes burn, and his lips curl up in a smile.

The Crown Prince stands hurriedly. The other trainees, bow deeply, hurry to gather their things and disperse. The gathered crowd frays at the edges, palace maids and eunuchs and guards alike, all stepping back into their respective roles.

He feels his elbow gripped harshly, a low voice and small smile.

“This has only begun, brother.”

 

 

Taeyong groans and looks over his shoulder at Choi Jin.

“Gently,” he hisses.

“I apologize, your highness,” Choi Jin says. His lips purse diffidently, and he turns his attention back to the green paste he’s covering Taeyong’s wounds with.

Taeyong sighs. “You seem upset,” he mumbles. “Would you like to tell me why?”

“It would not be in my place to say the things I would like to say to you, your highness,” the young eunuch says, glowering at the cut and bruised skin.

“Speak your mind, Choi Jin, please,” he says. He does not bother hiding his exhaustion.

“Would it have killed you to stay down, your highness?” Choi Jin grumbles.

“It would have killed my pride,” he says, chuckling a little when he hears Choi Jin scoff. “Do not chide me today, Choi Jin, I have had a tiring day.”

“I apologize, your highness,” he says, softening a little. “I suppose I should tell you something that would lift your spirits…”

The door slides open abruptly. Taeyong’s mother rushes in, hands outstretched, reaching for him, eyes red rimmed.

“My son,” she breathes.

Choi Jin hurriedly sets the wooden bowl and forceps down, bows, leaves the room.

“Mother, I have worried you,” he says sheepishly.

“You have, you have,” she says absently, her fingers on the side of his face, her eyes worriedly going over the many bruises, the many cuts and scrapes. “You are so terribly hurt.”

“I am sorry,” he says, ducking his head.

“Hush,” she says. “You have done me proud. The whole palace whispers of your honor, the resilience of your spirit.”

“They are kind to say so, but I can promise you, there was no honor in that fight. I felt such animosity for him in that moment, mother, I despise him so.”

He can feel her studying him, in the silence that ensues. He lifts his head to apologize for what he has said, but she speaks.

“Would you then say that he is not fit for the throne?”

He gapes at her, the sacrilege of a statement like that, of even raising the question, but then he remembers Yi Yeok’s mother, the buried threat in his brother’s words, the dishonor with which he fought. “Yes,” he says. “That is what I think.”

“Good,” his mother says quietly. “Good, you are ready.”

“For what, mother?”

“To take your place, my son,” she murmurs.

 

Taeyong ambles to his writing desk. He is so tired, placing one foot in front of the other seems near impossible, and in his state of incoordination he wonders how he ever fought the Crown Prince. His chest is heavy with the events of the day, his body weighed down by his brother’s whispered threat, by his mother’s secrets.

But his heart soars when he recalls how his father intervened. He must have been watching. He must have seen how bravely he fought. He must have.

His soul is in turmoil and he needs to write to Jaehyun. To ease his burden in half-truths and insinuations, in ink and paper.

He kneels before the desk. A blue patterned silk envelope sits there, unopened.

He picks it up, smiles when he realizes it is a letter from Jaehyun. He does not know when it arrived.

He begins to read, and his stomach twists, his heart soars. His words are soft, needed, like balm to a tired body, like a thirst quenched, he writes with such truth, such a lack of inhibition that it strikes him down. Defeats him. Conquers him.

_I would walk a thousand steps in any direction you point…_

_For your happiness, I would._

His eyes burn with tears. In his selfish need to ease his turmoil through his letters, he has frightened his friend, he realizes. He has made him believe he is unwanted, and yet Jaehyun seeks to lift his burdens. An unconditional love, that is what he has been blessed with.

An innocent, honest, happy love.

To hell with the treatise on change. To hell with Yeonsangun. To hell with the lies and deceit in this palace.

The only thing that remains unchanged and beautiful in his life is Jaehyun.

He presses a brush to paper.

_Dearest,_

_I cannot lie to you and say that I never had doubts about what is between us. I was drowning, but my poet, you have saved me with your letter. I cannot claim to understand what we hold between us, Jaehyun, but I can say now that it cannot be wrong. It is beautiful, delicate, like the flowers I longed for, it is everything I was looking for in my darkness and was blind to._

_If I have given you reason to believe that I wanted you to undo what you have done, if I have given you reason to believe that I need you to walk a thousand steps away from me, punish me, strike me down with your words for I am unkind and foolish._

_Know that you are the breath on my lips, my dearest, you are what keeps me alive. I am no poet, and I cannot weave magic in my words the way you can, but know, know till the day I die, that I am yours, and I would not be anything else._

_Taeyong._

 

He lies in bed, patterned blue silk pressed to his chest, a smile on his face.

 

Miles away, Jaehyun lies in his bed, yellow silk pressed to his chest.

 

**102 nd year of Joseon, Gongju.         **

Jaehyun is walking back from Seowon with a few other students, on the fringes of an excited conversation about the betrothal of one of their friends.

“He just turned seventeen, no more than a month ago,” someone says.

Seventeen, that’s how old Taeyong turned, just about a month ago. Jaehyun sent him a collection of rare and beautiful poems, all penned in his own hand, everything he read and loved. And Taeyong had replied, telling him he loved them, too, thanking him for remembering, telling him he missed him so terribly he couldn’t sleep some nights.

“I cannot believe he is marrying that pretty thing.”

“His father is the revenue officer. She would be mad not to marry him.”

Well, I suppose that is the only explanation for anyone to be marrying that pig.”

The group erupts in laughter, but Jaehyun finds himself clenching his teeth and staring at the ground. For one gut wrenching moment he wonders if Taeyong would be married off soon, too. The son of a king, handsome, kind, well-read, brilliant. Any woman would be mad not to marry him.

No, he thinks. Taeyong would resist, would he not? He would… wait. For Jaehyun. He would…

He remembers that day, his uncle telling Taeyong how perfect he looked next to his daughter. The way Taeyong laughed.

Fool, he thinks, with a sinking feeling in his gut. Fool, there is nothing you could give him. This is not natural, this does not fit in civilized society. This is nothing, just letters and a kiss. A love bound in ink. That is all this could be, he thinks.

“Jaehyun?”

He looks up.

“Don’t sulk, fool, we will find you a woman to love.”

He smiles. He does not want a woman. He wants Taeyong.

“Listen, one and all, listen!” a voice calls, a drum beating in time. A crowd is gathered around the source of the voice, a royal messenger by the looks of it. He stands atop a wooden platform with a scroll in hand.

“What is this?” someone says, and Jaehyun is pulled toward the crowd.

“The Great King Seongjeong, the learned, the wise, has abdicated his throne!” the man bellows. The crowd erupts in whispers and gasps. Jaehyun is struck dumb with shock, pushing his way through the crowd so he can hear him better. “From this day forward, Crown Prince Yeonsangun shall be your king! The coronation shall be…”

Jaehyun gapes at him. Yeonsangun. The crown prince. That tyrannical monster that Taeyong fears and loathes, good god, he thinks. God, what will become of us?

He pushes through the milling crowd, his friends forgotten, hurries home.

Madness, he thinks. This is madness. How will Taeyong live in the palace?

He rushes into his room, not bothering to greet his mother first, runs to his desk to write to Taeyong.

A yellow silk envelope sits on his desk. He curses, picks it up and opens it with trembling hands.

_Dearest,_

_The king has stepped down. Crown Prince Yeonsangun will be our new king, long live._

_Do not fear for me, I will be fine._

_I have much to tell you._

_Yours,_

_Taeyong_.

 

He stares at the letter. Characters written in a clumsy haste. He will be fine?

 

 

**103 rd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Jaehyun slows his horse to a trot, looks around. The arch of Gwanghuimun gate looms ahead of him, grey stone and deep green tiled roof. The fortress wall stretches forever on either side. Bullock carts carrying farm produce from the hamlets outside the wall and handicrafts from the capital’s artisans, men, women, children, all going in and out of this bustling gateway. He stops by the side of the road, and the two servants accompanying him stop a little behind him.

He is to give his entrance examination for Seonggyungwan tomorrow, and for that he has traveled to Hanyang, a day and a half of riding, and he is tired and aching for a bath and a bed in his uncle’s house.

A man in grey robes emerges from the shade of a cherry tree to his left, leading a horse by the reigns behind him. He bows deep.

“Sir, I am a servant of the venerable minister Jung Gongchan. You are the minister’s nephew, my lord?” he asks.

Jaehyun nods. “Jung Jaehyun,” he says.

“If you would follow me, my lord, I will escort you to the minister’s home,” he says. “It is a short distance from here.”

Jaehyun nods again, watches him mount his horse.

“You have traveled far, would you like refreshments first?” he asks.

“No, I am alright,” he says. He turns to his servants. “You two, do you need to rest?”

“No, my lord. Thank you for your consideration,” one boy replies.

“Alright, then, please follow closely behind,” the minister’s servant says. His horse trots away, and Jaehyun follows behind, watches the man nod at the guard by the gate, and the guard nodding back. They pass under the gate, its shade a momentary relief before the sun beats down again.

They travel a distance before they are brought to a halt when a small group of children, street urchins, perhaps, swarm around them, getting in their way, hands reaching up and tugging at Jaehyun’s jeogori. They are forced to stop so they wouldn’t trample the children, and the horses whinny and flick their tails irritably.

“Out of the way!” the servant bellows, pulling his robes away from their grabbing hands and trying to urge his horse to move away from them, but all his admonishing is drowned out in an erupting chorus of “My lord, I’m hungry, my lord, give me something, some bread, sir, some bread, please, sir, anything…”

Jaehyun stomach twists, unable to tear his eyes away from their gaunt faces and brittle brown hair, dirt crusted nails, blackened and digging into his clothes with a sort of desperation, like they’re drowning and he is their only hope. He reaches for the small coin purse tied inside his robes, but the servant turns to him.

“My lord, I would advise you not to,” he says. “You will only attract more of them. Like flies to sugar.”

“They are children, and they are hungry,” he says, frowning, baffled by his apathy.

“With all due respect, young lord, their fathers are drunks and their mothers are whores, and they will grow up to be drunks and whores. No money you could give them will do them any good. Do not waste your time on them. I strongly suggest we leave.”

“I cannot turn away from them,” he says, his eyes on a small baby in the arms of an older child.

“My lord, we are pressed for time,” the servant urges. “Your uncle waits for you.”

Jaehyun sighs. It would be terribly rude to make the man wait any longer.

He reaches for his coin purse and retrieves a few silver pieces, holds them out to his servants. “Take this, buy them something to eat,” he says. “Find your way to the house when they have eaten.”

The servants bow and dismount their horses, the children swarming around them and clearing a path for him to leave. They have no gratitude for him, only eyes for the money.

He looks around as they ride away, some effervescent energy in his chest despite his stiff muscles, despite hours of travel and that strange encounter near the city gates.

The streets look different now. The narrow winding dirt tracks of the sprawling slums on the outskirts, the stench of open drains ripe in the air, changed to this, wide, paved, tree-lined. The servant slows, gestures to a set of gates ahead on their right.

“The palace gates, young lord,” he says.

“Gwanghamun gate,” Jaehyun says in awe, straining his neck at the massive structure, plastered white and elegant, nothing like anything he has ever seen. Three huge arches, royal red doors thrown wide open, guards in deep red silk standing stiffly at the entrance. He can see another gateway framed in the arches of the Gwanghamun gate, in the distance, a fleeting image. Beautiful, ornate, more exquisite than anything in Gongju.

It takes the breath out of his chest and strikes a strange sort of fear in him. The sheer opulence of it, how far above the palace is from brittle brown hair and blackened fingernails. Towering walls and massive doors divide them.

Somewhere behind these gates is a face he hasn’t seen in over a year, a voice he hasn’t heard and hands he hasn’t held. A familiar longing, the same consuming need he has felt every night for over a year takes root in his heart. He reminds himself to be patient, not to stray from the task at hand.

Taeyong will come to him when he can. He wrote to Taeyong before he left, told him when and where he’d be in Hanyang, he reminds himself.

“And Seonggyungwan?” he asks.

“It is still far,” the man says. “You will see it tomorrow.”

Jaehyun nods, picking up speed again.

 

 

Taeyong hears hurried footsteps outside his room, Choi Jin’s voice calling out.

“Your highness, may I...”

“Come in!” he says, getting to his feet.

The door slides open and Choi Jin steps in, bows low.

 “Your highness, a message has come from the minister’s…”

“He is here,” Taeyong breathes.

He has been waiting since morning for Jaehyun’s arrival, impatience making him irritable as the hours ticked by. It feels surreal, that he will see Jaehyun again, his dimples and his smile. Over a year of waiting, of burying secrets in ink and he can finally see his friend, hear his voice, lace his fingers with Jaehyun’s and smell the sage in his skin.

“Yes, your highness.”

“Send word to the minister. Tell him I will visit him in the evening,” he says breathlessly.

“As you wish, your highness,” Choi Jin says and bows again.

“Wait, Choi Jin,” Taeyong says. “Tell them Jaehyun is not to be told of my visit.”

The young eunuch chuckles. “As you wish,” he says again.

 

Taeyong steps out of his sedan when it is lowered, arranges his robes, toys with the rings on his fingers restlessly, tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He nods at the servants bowing to him at the entryway of the minister’s home, follows them into the house.

The minister and his wife stand outside the door to the tea room, smiling wide and bowing.

“Respected minister,” Taeyong says with a low bow. “Lady Jung.”

“Your highness,” the man says. “It is lovely to have you in our home again.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Taeyong says with a smile.

“You are kind,” the minister says. “My nephew is in the tea room with my daughter, if you would like to follow me.”

“Yes sir, thank you,” Taeyong says, following behind them.

“Nephew,” the minister calls out and Jaehyun turns, still chuckling at something Soohyun said, with a cup in his hand and a smile in his eyes.

Taeyong feels faint, his hands trembling when Jaehyun’s eyes meet his, when his laugh stops abruptly and amazement fills his face, his lips parting, the cup almost slipping from his hand as he struggles to comprehend that Taeyong is standing in front of him.

He stands clumsily, and Taeyong stares at his face, narrower than the last time he saw him, but still so painfully handsome, so achingly familiar. He cannot breathe.

“Hyungn… Your highness,” Jaehyun breathes, bowing.

“Goodness, you have shocked the words out of his mouth,” the minister chuckles.

Taeyong laughs breathlessly, takes a step forward, his eyes on Jaehyun’s, and it’s a struggle not to throw his arms around Jaehyun or press his hands to his cheeks or press a kiss to his lips just to prove to him that he is here. He knows, he knows Jaehyun is thinking the same thing.

Jaehyun smiles, as if finally understanding what’s happening.

“Your highness, it is good to see you,” he says.

“It is good to see you, too, my friend,” Taeyong says, and they meet in the briefest embrace. An exchange between men, old friends, but only they know that in that moment Taeyong breathed in deep, the scent of Jaehyun’s skin, and Jaehyun swallowed thickly, his hand lingering longer than needed on the small of his back.

“You are well?” he asks.

“I am,” Taeyong says.

Only when they part, Taeyong realizes Jaehyun’s cousin, Soohyun, is bowing too.

“Good evening, Agassi,” he says pleasantly.

“Soohyun, pour a cup of tea for his highness,” Lady Jung instructs.

“Wouldn’t you rather a walk in the garden, your highness?” Jaehyun suggests casually. “The weather is lovely, and the minister’s garden is beautiful.”

“A walk sounds lovely,” Taeyong says. “After tea.”

He smiles when Jaehyun glares at him, rests a soothing hand on the younger’s shoulder as if to tell him to be patient. He cannot disrespect the minister by turning them down to spend time with Jaehyun. Minutes tick by, pleasant conversation flows, and Jaehun sits glowering beside him, and he has to bite back a laugh every time he catches his eye because he looks like a sulking child.

When the cup empties, he excuses himself politely.

“I should like to take that walk now,” he says, and Jaehyun scrambles to his feet.

“Yes, that walk,” he says. “Let me show you the way.”

“Soohyun would you like to go with them?” Lady Jung says, and Taeyong’s heart sinks.

“It is late,” Jaehyun says abruptly. “Soohyun, you must be tired, wouldn’t you rather retire?”

The girl looks from Jaehyun to Taeyong. Something unspoken passes between the three of them.

“Yes, mother, I think it is better for me to retire,” she says, and Jaehyun smiles wide at his sister.

“Well, then we will be on our way,” Taeyong says, overwhelmed with gratitude for that sensitive young girl.

 

The moment they step out into the garden, out of sight of the main house, Taeyong turns to Jaehyun breathlessly, only to find that Jaehyun is already reaching for him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close, bodies pressed together, his lips pressed to Taeyong’s hair.

He is taller, now, Taeyong realizes when he finds that he is able to tuck his face against the side of Jaehyun’s neck. He is taller and broader and he is here, he is here now holding him like dreams falling into reality and Taeyong finds his eyes wet.

“You royal fool, you have made me wait so long,” Jaehyun murmurs.

Taeyong laughs, his arms winding around Jaehyun’s shoulders, hands fisting in his robes, pulling him closer still.

“My dearest poet,” he breathes. “My dearest, you are here now.”

He feels the harsh rise and fall of Jaehyun’s chest, matched with his own ragged breath, the wild pounding of his heart, matched with his own tripping heartbeat.

“You are more beautiful than I remember,” Jaehyun says.

“And you are handsomer, still.”

The younger shifts a little, dips his chin and Taeyong looks up at him, glowing pale and beautiful in the fading light. His eyes flutter closed when lips press against his forehead. Warm, moist, just like he remembers.

 “May I kiss you?” Jaehyun asks softly, and Taeyong feels faint all over again. Forgets to breathe.

“Do you have to ask?”

Jaehyun laughs, soft and intimate, his breath warm against Taeyong’s mouth. Lips press against his own, desperate, overwhelming, a kiss instead of a confession, and he makes a soft sound, acquiescence, defeat, submission to his love.

“I have longed for you,” he whispers. “I have…”

“I know,” Jaehyun says. His hand cradles the back of Taeyong’s head. “You do not have to speak, my prince, I know your heart.”

Taeyong’s mouth seeks Jaehyun’s again. Gentler now that the longing has been eased, the press and pull of skin, the mingling of breath. “I know you will shine in Saewongsi tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Let them see your brilliance, let them know you are here to stay.”

“I would not let you slip away from me again.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was some serious writing. Sorry I took so long with this chapter guys author fails lol. Thank you for sticking around and do let me know how it’s going so far <3 <3
> 
> Also, for those of you have no idea wtf is actually going on with the protests and the Americans and stuff, read this:
> 
> Pre 1945, Japanese occupation of Korea
> 
> Post ww2, American occupation south of the 38th parallel, USSR to the north. Proposal for trusteeship government for a short period, following which the Koreas would govern independently. Initial plans to retain the Japanese setup faced with massive protests. Later, an interim government is set up by the US, without inclusion of political parties that had gained public favor, like the Peoples’ Republic of Korea, leading to further discontent. They even banned the PRK, saying they’re aligned with communism, even though everyone was like wtf no.
> 
> The protests in this chapter come under the Autumn Uprising of 1946, starting in the south – Busan, Daegu etc and moving into Seoul.
> 
> That’s about it. For now. If you found that helpful, let me know and I’ll do more for the upcoming chapters. Also if I’ve made any mistakes, firstly I’m sorryyyy and secondly, please tell me, and I’ll fix them.
> 
> Thanks again guysss :3

**1946, Seoul.**

Joon Jae clears his throat noisily, and a large hand claps down on Jaehyun’s back. A moment passes before he’s pulled into an awkward embrace, that hand still clapping him on the back, and a moment later, he’s released again.

“Appa says if you need anything, you just ask,” Joon Jae says.

“I’m sorry about what happened hyung,” Daehyun adds apologetically. “Eomma sent this. She said you should eat well and stay strong.”

Jaehyun nods, takes the cloth-wrapped boxes from the younger. It’s kimchi and dried fish, he can smell it already, and he’s only mildly surprised that that is his only thought at the moment. These are condolences for the loss of a father, and his only thought is kimchi and dried fish, but he’s getting used to that now.

It’s been two days, and a strange sort of abstraction has set in. He doesn’t feel like a gutted animal anymore, like all his entrails are spread out on display and the whole world is just looking at him, disinterestedly assessing which part to cut out next. He doesn’t feel that crushing loneliness today. It feels like any other day before it happened, like any other day he’d go about his business while his father was in Japan.

It only hurts when he remembers there will be no more letters, and no more hope of returning to the life he left behind.

Joon Jae clears his throat again. “Really, Jaehyun, I understand. If you need anything…” he says.

Jaehyun stares at him for a moment. He doesn’t understand, how could he? Both of them, Joon Jae and Daehyun, both their parents are alive and well, how could they understand?

“We’re alright,” he says.

“How will you manage? The money… if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m quitting school,” he says nonchalantly. That’s what his grandmother told him when she sat him down this morning.

_I can’t send you to school,_ she said. _I don’t have the money and I can’t ask Juinnim for more, Jaehyun. It’s not right, he’s giving us too much as it is. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my boy, I wish I could do better for you._

His chin trembles like a fucking child and his throat tightens, and he doesn’t even know why, he always hated going to school. But maybe it’s only beginning to sink in, only just, that at the rate he’s going he’ll spend his life in the factories and he’ll die in the factories just like his father. Just like a fucking dog, and maybe they’ll burn his body somewhere and leave one duffel bag to show for ever having lived.

“Oh,” Joon Jae says, but he can’t seem to say much more.

“What do you want to do? Cards? Marbles? Head down to the river, look at girls?” Daehyun says.

Jaehyun swallows down the tightness in his throat. He doesn’t want to spend time with them, they don’t understand anything, and their company doesn’t soothe him like he hoped it would. They can’t soothe him, not with their awkward hugs, not with their empty words.

“Anything. Doesn’t really matter,” he says.

 

 

He’s walking to the market to buy groceries for his halmi, Taeyong deciding to just tag along, just because. Jaehyun doesn’t mind, really, because being around Taeyong soothes him for some reason he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t feel like the other boys, like Joon Jae and Daehyun. Something about him is so different, so much softer, maybe the fact that he lost his mother, and he knows what it feels like. His comfort feels real, not like the other boys.

“Oh,” Taeyong chuckles. “Oh my god.”

“What is it?” Jaehyun asks, just realizing Taeyong has stopped walking. He turns back, and there he is, squinting at a movie poster in the Now Showing part of a shoddy cinema hall.

“Oh Mong Nyeo,” he says excitedly, pointing at the poster, looking back at Jaehyun with barely concealed excitement.

“What’s Oh Mong Nyeo?” Jaehyun asks, puzzled, his turn to squint at the faded poster.

“It’s a movie. It came out… I don’t know, ten years ago? Abeoji was close with Na Woongyu back then,” he says and looks up at Jaehyun. “The director, the man who made it, he knew abeoji. They showed it at our house, I remember, a bunch of old men and women… they were so snooty… well they had dinner first and then they sat together in the library and we dimmed the lights and it was so exciting, Jaehyun, we have to watch it.”

“Halmi’s going to kill me if I take that long with the vegetables,” he says.

“I’ll talk to her, I promise, please, Jaehyun, please? I really want to watch, and I promise I’ll talk to halmeoni and you won’t get in trouble, promise.”

Jaehyun smiles, amused by the way all of that came out in a single breath, amused by his childish energy. “Well, alright, if you insist,” he says.

He’s more excited than he wants to let on. His only memory of watching a film is from when he was seven, and they were watching an American film, Ben Hur, in black and white, silent, with a translator standing up front, telling them they were all just sheep under the Japanese, just like the jews in Ben Hur. It was later, after it ended that he asked his father what that was all about, and his father told him that the translators at the cinemas carry a message of hope, keep the fire of the Korean spirit burning, all of this right under the noses of the Japanese government pushing their culture down Korean throats. He remembers it so clearly. It’s an opportunity Jaehyun, an innocent crowd, an audience, not for the film, but for their message.

“Great, then we have to, let’s go!” Taeyong says, grabs him by the wrist and pulls him towards the ticket counter.

Jaehyun’s eyes settle on Taeyong’s happy face, mouthing words he’s not paying attention to, but he hears the words four hundred won, and his eyes drop to Taeyong’s hand, sliding into his back pocket, pulling out a brown leather wallet, his fingers absently tracing the stitching before his thumb dips into the wallet, toys with the edges of a few crisp banknotes.

His heart sinks. Disappointment.

His gaze flicks back up to Taeyong’s face, up to his big eyes looking back at him and he shakes his head. No. He doesn’t have the money for this, he knows, but he reaches into his pockets anyway. Two hundred, that’s all he has.

“I could pay?” Taeyong says.

Jaehyun shakes his head again. No. No, the world has stepped on his pride, but he won’t be reduced to Taeyong’s charity.

“No, it’s fine, you go ahead, watch the movie. I’ll head home.”

“Let me pay,” he says again. “It’s nothing, just an early birthday present.”

“No,” he says again. Decisive. Unreasonably proud. Disappointed, but he won’t let on. “I’m heading home. It’s fine, I really don’t need to…”

Taeyong turns back to the man at the counter. “I’ve seen kids sitting on the floor, is that possible? Right up front, we don’t even need seats.”

“Hyung…”

“How much would that be?”

“Eighty.”

Eighty, that he can do, that much he can pay, and his heart lifts again, tentative when he fishes the note out of his pocket and holds it up, says “I have that much.”

Tentative, as if afraid of disappointment again, but the crumpled note is taken from his hand and a little slip of paper takes its place, and Taeyong takes him by the wrist again and he’s pulled past heavy curtains into a stuffy, dark room. And he knows his dimples are showing.

 

They’re sitting on the grimy floor, right up front, necks craned up painfully, but Jaehyun couldn’t be bothered. He’s mesmerized. Oh Mong Nyeo, that beautiful, delicate girl who sailed away with her lover, left fear and pain and suffering behind and just sailed away.

He was a little uncomfortable at first, worried about Taeyong having to sit with him and a couple of other kids on the floor, and he kept asking if he was alright there, if he didn’t just want to get a ticket for the seats behind him, but Taeyong just said shut up, the show’s about to start, and he did what he was told.

And now he’s mesmerized by this story, his eyes widening in surprise and his hand fisting excitedly in Taeyong’s sleeve when he realized the film has sound, music and words, in his language. Not like the last time, a foreign silent film. His people telling him a story in his language, not Americans, not Japanese, his people, his language. And he’s proud, he’s entranced, he can’t tear his eyes away.

He must look stupid, he knows, with his mouth open and his neck craned. He doesn’t care.

When the credits roll, that’s when he lets himself move, turn to Taeyong, and he finds that Taeyong is looking back at him with a barely there smile. Something delicate, like Oh Mong Nyeo. He can just about make it out in that dim light, and he smiles back, only slightly embarrassed that Taeyong saw him looking like an awestruck backwater idiot.

He smiles readily.

He’s so grateful Taeyong made him come, that Taeyong understood his need to keep his pride, that he stepped down to Jaehyun’s level when he couldn’t match his. He’s grateful that he hasn’t left Jaehyun’s side since his father died, he’s so grateful that he isn’t alone, and he knows what he owes Taeyong.

 

 

**Present Day, Seoul.**

It’s just before the lights dim, and they’re in their closing positions. For some reason, he doesn’t know why, Taeyong’s gaze drifts across the stage. Or no, that’s not quite right, that’s what he wants to say, but the truth sound more like Taeyong looks for Jaehyun. He has no idea why, that’s still true. They’re on stage, and the crowd is cheering madly, haphazardly, the fanchant hasn’t been made yet, and the lights are hot, burning bright in his eyes. His gaze just drifts.

There he is, Jaehyun, right across from him, his chest rising and falling, sweat beading down his temple and his messy, curly brown hair is catching the light in the best way. Charismatic, the interviews will say tomorrow. Jaehyun, handsome and charismatic. He agrees.

It’s just before the lights dim, and Jaehyun’s gaze drifts too, he sees it happen. Maybe he’s looking for Taeyong, too, or maybe he just felt the eyes on him and turned to look, that’s probably what the truth sounds like, Taeyong thinks. For the briefest moment, their eyes meet, and Jaehyun smiles. And then the lights go off, and the image is seared into his mind. Bright lights and his happy, happy smile, and his stomach turns head over heels so quick he’s dizzy, disoriented in the darkness.

Someone bumps into him.

“Ah, hyung, walk, walk, that way,” Mark hisses behind him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and they’re rushing off stage.

 

 

**1946, Seoul.**

“They said they’ll hire me,” Jaehyun reports. Taeyong’s bedroom door creaks shut behind him, and he reminds himself to oil the hinges sometime. He drags his feet across the cool floor, hears Taeyong setting a bottle of ink and a dropper down on his table.

He has just returned to the Big House after speaking to the owners of the bakery down the street. He’s found himself a job now, in the evenings after school, grunt work at the bakery. He knows they don’t need him around, he knows he was only given the job out of the kindness of their hearts and the pay is too much for the hours he’s putting in and he knows the work isn’t anything he wants to do with his time. He knows he needs it.

_You’ll need it_ , that’s what Taeyong had said to him a few days earlier, _you’ll need the money now that…_

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaehyun sees him twisting around in his chair.

“That’s great! How much are they giving you?” he asks.

“Enough,” he says, collapsing into Taeyong’s bed. He grunts, satisfied with the softness of the mattress under him.

It’s a fraction of what they were receiving from his father, considering he’s only working evenings, but Taeyong wouldn’t let him drop out of school.

_Don’t be stupid, you have to finish school,_ he said. _You’ll be nowhere in this world if you don’t finish school, Jaehyun, I won’t let you do this._

That evening, at dinner, Taeyong spoke timidly to his father, hesitantly brought up Jaehyun’s father’s death. Jaehyun heard everything, he stood quietly in the hallway outside the dining room, holding the jar of pickles his grandmother asked him to fetch from the store room, his eyes burning, and heard everything. The next morning, his halmi came back and told him Juinnim was kind, that he’d said he would raise her pay, and she could cover the school fees now, and she was so happy, that it was all fate, all the kindness of god, and she was so sorry he had to go through this.

But he knew God wasn’t kind, he knew whose kindness had helped him.

He squirms a little, finds a comfortable position. “This is a really nice bed, have I ever told you that?”

Taeyong chuckles. “A few times,” he says. “When do you start?”

“Next week,” he replies. His eyes follow the crooked path of a spider on the ceiling, idly taking in the peeling white paint. A comfortable silence settles around them, and he knows what he needs to say to break it. He knows the words he owes Taeyong, but maybe he’s still too proud to say them.

“Let’s do something today,” Taeyong says.

Jaehyun turns towards him, grateful for the distraction.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, anything. Your evenings won’t be free once you start working, you know. We’ll have to work around your schedule if you want my company.”

“And who says I want your company?” he teases.

“Your face does.”

“Well at least my face isn’t ugly.”

“Neither is mine,” Taeyong huffs.

“There’s ink on your face.”

He snorts when Taeyong raises an ink stained hand dumbly to his cheek, and says “What? Where?” and he only succeeds in leaving new smudges on his face. He laughs harder when Taeyong groans, only just realizing what he’s done.

He’s positively howling by the time Taeyong decides to beat his ass for laughing at him.

 

 

 

 

Wooden steps creak under his feet. Wet cloth clings to his face, his body. Blind. The sound of rain and the smell of wet earth. He can hear a woman’s voice somewhere in the distance, a constant refrain. Desperate, choked.

_You did this to him. You did this, you did._

He’s trembling again, so afraid, he doesn’t know if he’s crying, can’t tell his tears from the rain.

“Jaehyun.”

_Did you mean it? Did you mean it?_

“Jaehyun, wake up.”

_Jaehyun, you must. Jaehyun, you know what you must do now._

“Jaehyun, don’t be lazy, wake up!”

He blinks slowly. His eyes are still sleep sticky and he feels like his bones are rattling. His hands fly up to his face as if to pull that suffocating cloth away, but all he feels is skin. Not cold, not dripping wet.

“Finally,” Taeyong huffs.

Jaehyun sits up, still a little dazed.

“Happy birthday, fool,” Taeyong says.

Jaehyun blinks up at Taeyong, crouching by his bed with a bowl of steaming seaweed soup and a little square of cake from the market, one small candle stuck in the center.

“You’re fifteen now, congratulations,” Taeyong says again.

His smile is wide, happier about Jaehyun’s birthday than he himself is, when he sets the bowl and plate down next to Jaehyun’s mattress.

“What time is it?” Jaehyun rasps.

“Eleven-ish. Halmeoni said she let you sleep in, because it’s your birthday,” he says. “Now come on, stop being a log, go wash up and you can have your birthday breakfast and then I’ll take you out and we’ll buy your present.”

Jaehyun just stares at him, too tired, too drained from that dream, now familiar from all the fitful nights he’s had since his father passed. And Taeyong is here, wishing him a happy birthday, being a wonderful friend like he has for the past two weeks, soothing his pain and making him laugh.

“It’s not toxic, promise, Halmeoni helped me make it,” Taeyong rambles on.

“You made the soup?”

“Yes, now go wash up, it’s getting cold.”

“You made the soup,” he repeats.

“Boy, are you still asleep?” he chuckles.

Pretty, Jaehyun thinks, sleep muddled brain failing to filter his thoughts. Pretty smile, such pretty lips, almost girlish. Something delicate, something he can’t put his finger on. Jaehyun smiles back, readily, like that day at the cinema, like every day he’s faced with Taeyong’s smile.

He knows what he owes that boy, and he gives it up at last. He doesn’t know what makes him say it, what makes him put his pride aside, but he thinks it might be the smell of hot seaweed soup, who can fight it, really.

“Thank you, hyung,” he mumbles, long overdue.

 

 

**Present Day, Seoul.**

They’re just being packed into the van, and Taeyong gets into the front seat next to the manager. Jaehyun doesn’t like that. It’s stupid, illogical, and he’d never admit to having thought it, but driving back from performances doesn’t feel right without Taeyong’s sticky skin and his bony frame pressed against his side.

“Hey, hyung you good?” Jaehyun asks, getting comfortable in his seat in the middle row.

“Hmm? Me?” Taeyong says, craning his neck back.

“Yeah, you sort of almost faceplanted at the end there,” Jaehyun says.

“Shut up, I lost my balance for like two seconds,” he grumbles, settling back into his seat. “And it only happened because the light cut out so suddenly.”

Jaehyun laughs. “Maybe it’s the age, harabeoji,” he teases, and gets a sweaty towel straight to the face.

He chuckles, watches Taeyong in the side mirror, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. He can see a few strands of silver white hair past the edge of the headrest, too. He’s still not used to it, the white.

The engine starts up, and he makes himself comfortable, leans his head against the window and looks out. That’s misleading, he reminds himself. He’s not looking out, exactly, not at the passing cars and streetlights. He’s looking at the side mirror. At Taeyong’s sleeping face, and he’s thinking of that small moment, when his gaze just drifted, helplessly, embarrassingly, looking for his hyung in the closing seconds of their performance. And he found him, looking back at him, and he smiled, helplessly, embarrassingly, because fuck, he was so handsome. He was brighter than the stage lights, quietly beautiful, even in the noise of cheering fans and the closing notes of their song, he was quite something.

Moments slip by, and Taeyong stirs, he blinks, and he’s looking in the mirror, too, as if he knew he was being watched. Jaehyun’s muscles stiffen, caught staring, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t bother looking away, it’s too late for that, because Taeyong’s reflection is raising an eyebrow at him. He smiles, helplessly, embarrassingly, and Taeyong smiles back. Still brighter than stage lights and quietly beautiful.

Butterflies come to life in Jaehyun’s stomach, and he holds Taeyong’s gaze till he closes his eyes again and goes back to sleep. The van rumbles on, and all the other members remain oblivious to that moment they shared, and Jaehyun goes back to pretending he’s looking out the window.

Fuck, he thinks. I’m fucked.

 

 

**1946, Seoul.**

“You’re not coming tomorrow?” Joon Jae asks.

Jaehyun hums. “I told Taeyong hyung I’d help him out before work tomorrow. His old man’s leaving for Japan in a few days so hyung’s been given a whole lot of chores like sorting out the old man’s papers and such…”

He trails off, because Joon Jae is raising an eyebrow at him.

“What?” he says.

“I thought you said you don’t work for him?”

“I’m just helping him out. Like I’d help you out if you needed something, you know?” he says. He’s a little irritated already, because Joon Jae hasn’t done this in a long time, and he was hoping they’d never have to have this conversation again.

Joon Jae chuckles. “Yeah, except I’d do the same for you,” he says. Something about the way he says that irks Jaehyun.

“He helps me, too, all the time,” he says firmly. “He helps me with schoolwork, he comes with me when halmi gives me chores…”

“Really? I’ve never seen that.”

What is he saying? Is he saying that’s a lie? That he just made it up so he wouldn’t sound like he’s Taeyong’s secretary? Like Joon Jae thinks he acts?

“That’s because you were such an asshole to him the last time you were in the same room, he doesn’t come anywhere near me when you’re around,” he snaps.

Joon Jae stands, stretches to his full height. “An asshole, huh? That’s what I get for looking out for you?”

“I don’t understand how,” he says. Calm when Joon Jae steps closer, something a little threatening, poorly concealed anger in the way he leans forward.

“I saw you that day, coming out of the cinema. You looked like a fucking fool, you know that? I saw it, you were gushing, you were thanking him like he’d just saved your life, you sounded like a pathetic fool,” he hisses. “You don’t see it, you idiot. He buys you things and you think you’re his best friend but he only keeps you around because he’s… he has no fucking friends, Jaehyun. Nobody wants to go near him or his family now, can’t you see? They’re sympathizers, his father sucked Japanese cock and made his money, can’t you see? Don’t treat him like a friend, he’s the enemy.”

“I don’t know about his father,” Jaehyun says. He’s angry, his hands trembling. “But hyung’s a good person.”

Joon Jae chuckles. “He’s a fucking nancy.”

Jaehyun snaps, anger flares red behind his eyes, his mouth a thin line and his palm pushed flat against Joon Jae’s chest, shoves him back a step with his full weight. Daehyun jumps up from where he was sitting, quietly watching their argument, clearly alarmed.

“Fuck you,” he spits. “He’s helped me more than you can even imagine, so fuck you. Don’t say another word.”

“Hyung, please, don’t fight,” he says, stepping between them. His hands rest on Jaehyun’s shoulders, firm, pushing him back, his back holding Joon Jae off. “Don’t fight, you’re having a rough time, right now, Jaehyun hyung, and if you say he helps you, then that’s a good thing, we can leave it there, right? Joon Jae hyung?”

“Fuck this. Just don’t come crying to me when he drops you.”

_I’ll never leave you, Jaehyun._

“He won’t. He wouldn’t, he’s not like that. And fuck you for saying he has no friends. He has me.”

 

 

The wind blows, harsh and cold. A lone figure stands in the distance, half hidden in early morning light, but he knows who it is. He can’t see very well, just hears the calls of seagulls and smells the salt in the air. The path is rough, sharp, jagged edges of rock. Somewhere, the sound of the ocean.

He’s walking closer, closer still, till he sees the ocean past the little cliff edge he’s nearing. Stubbornly colorless, a muddy grey, white tipped waves breaking gently over the sandy beach twenty feet below. Till the faint scent of lavender fills his senses, the stranger’s scent carried on the back of the biting wind.

The figure turns to look at him, as if just hearing his footsteps.

Crimson. He sees flowing crimson.

He hears his own voice.

“It’s early.”

The stranger turns back to the ocean.

“I had the strangest dream.”

 

“I had the strangest dream,” Jaehyun echoes.

He stretches his stiff limbs and looks up at Taeyong. He’s watching him carefully. His hand still rests on Jaehyun’s shoulder, left there casually after shaking him awake.

“Same one?” he asks worriedly.

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Not that one,” he says, sitting up and scrubbing at his face. He feels Taeyong’s hand slipping off his shoulder and he misses its comfort. “This was new.”

“I was going to let you sleep, but you started frowning. And then you mumbled something,” Taeyong says. He sits beside Jaehyun.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says.

Taeyong was still studying when Jaehyun came up to his room that evening. Looking for distraction, looking for a laugh and a silly argument, everything Taeyong could give him. He was tired, so tired, because some strange dream had been keeping his eyes dry and wide open, so many nights since his father passed. The same dream, over and over, that wet cloth smothering him, the rain, the fear, the creaking wood.

“You weren’t disturbing me. I was just worried,” he replies. There’s a gentle sort of smile on his face when he reaches out and ruffles Jaehyun’s hair. There it is again, a sort of tenderness in that touch, something reminiscent of home and family, something delicate.

He was looking for that, too, when he sought Taeyong out that evening, the comfort of his scent and his soothing hands. The softness of his voice. That tenderness. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep there, waiting for Taeyong to take a break and give him some company, but he’s glad he did.

“It felt like a good dream,” Jaehyun says softly.

“Well that’s good,” Taeyong replies. “Maybe that means you should sleep here more often.”

Jaehyun smiles and stretches again, collapsing back into bed, the soft mattress and quilts forgiving and gentle against his body.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he mumbles, and Taeyong chuckles.

It was a good dream, he thinks. For the first time in a long time, it was a good dream.

“What did you dream about?” Taeyong asks, crawling over him to the empty side of the bed, getting under the covers. Jaehyun shifts a little, gives him some more space.

“The ocean. Seagulls, a sort of cliff.”

“Sounds good,” Taeyong says, squirming a little to get comfortable, finally settling on his side, facing Jaehyun. That’s when Jaehyun sees the light cream color of his pajamas, the darkness outside the bay windows. He wonders just how long he slept.

“It’s late,” he states. Taeyong nods.

“I’ll go if you want to sleep.”

“Sleep here.” It’s a mumbled response, eyes fluttering shut.

“You sure that’s alright?” he asks tentatively.

“It’s fine. You won’t get in trouble, abeoji’s not even in the country.”

“Hyung, are you sure?” he asks again, but he’s met with silence. He sighs and shifts slightly to face Taeyong, an arm folded under his head. He wants to stay, that’s for sure. The bed is a million times better than the thin floor mattress he usually sleeps on, and the sheets smell like Taeyong and that comforts him like an older brother’s embrace.

He is just like an older brother, Jaehyun thinks, in that comfort he holds, in that maturity and surety and guidance he gives. But there’s this odd quality Taeyong has, that delicate little something that lies in everything about Taeyong, that delicate little twist to his mouth when he doesn’t like something, and that delicate little flutter to his eyelashes when he’s tired of reading. That little sigh when he drinks his cup of warm milk, and that little smile. That soft little caress, those fingers ruffling his hair. He thinks maybe he’s put his finger on it, close to figuring out what makes him feel so different from other boys.

_…he’s a fucking nancy._

 “Jaehyun, can you get the lights?” he mumbles after a long moment.

“Sure, hyung,” he replies, watching the small, abortive yawn on Taeyong’s lips. He shifts a little, leans over and pushes the black switch. The room falls into darkness and Jaehyun settles back down. He keeps his eyes open, till they adjust to the dark, till he can see Taeyong’s face again.

Delicate, he thinks, not quite an older brother.

He keeps his eyes open, till the rhythmic creaking of the ceiling fan sings him lullabies, counts the passing of time, till he can’t quite stay awake anymore, and his eyes fall shut.

Taeyong’s familiar smell, the faintest hint of lavender.

 

Taeyong doesn’t know it, doesn’t know that he’s smiling, doesn’t know that his heart is racing, because he’s drifting off to sleep. He doesn’t know that he’s dreaming, of that little newspaper-clipping memory, of Jaehyun’s face in the dim light of the cinema, so happy, his lips a little parted and playing at a smile, telltale dimples, his eyes wide and shining, transfixed.

He doesn’t know that he dreams of sitting up on his knees on that grimy floor and leaning forward while the credits roll, pressing his lips to that pretty dimple.

But when his eyes blink open in the morning, and he finds himself close, so close, close enough to see his lashes and the sheen of his skin, he remembers it all.

“Oh,” he says softly.

 

 

Taeyong huffs and shuts his book. Silence.

It’s just so quiet, so awfully boring, so terribly lonely. He’s almost forgotten the stifling silence of that great big house, its quiet, gleaming wooden floors and towering bookcases. The familiar rustle of wind in the trees outside and the faint birdcalls in the distance. The solitude of afternoons in summer vacation. He used to like that, he remembers, after his mother died, he learned to like this silence.

Spending hours with the books he used to read with her, hours with the rustling of pages and leaves outside his window, that’s all it took for him to feel close to her, feel happy and at peace. Silence, he learned to value that, the kind of quiet that lets you hear crickets in the hedges and frogs in the orchard. The kind of quiet he learned to find when he’d wake up at night to the sound of shattering glass, to drunken footsteps thudding up the stairs, to things falling apart.

Now he can barely remember how he used to pass the time before he had the option of chasing Jaehyun across the front lawn for calling him ugly and getting yelled at by the gardener, finally catching up to him only to trip him over into mud and bursting into laughter. Or sticking their heads into the kitchen after a day spent wandering the streets, raucously begging halmeoni to give them dessert before dinner while she shakes her head with great bemusement, pretending like the pot on the kerosene stove is taking all her focus to stir. Before the sound of Jaehyun’s laughter filled his silence.

He tries to read again, embarrassed by himself, but five minutes later, he’s read the same sentence eight times and he hasn’t the slightest idea what it says. He shuts his book again.

 

 

It’s past nine when there’s a knock on his door that’s as familiar as the sound of Jaehyun’s voice. Taeyong’s heart leaps into his throat, eager to see Jaehyun, eager to unstick his voice from his throat and just talk to someone.

“Come in,” he says.

The door opens, and Jaehyun walks in, stretching, groaning. He’s in his pajamas, clean, freshly showered by the looks of it. He crosses the room, collapses into Taeyong’s bed again without a single word. Taeyong chuckles and gets out of his chair to join him.

“You’re tired,” he says.

Jaehyun shakes his head, his eyes already closed. Taeyong sits there on the edge of the bed and watches him for a moment.

“Sleep,” he says softly.

“I’m not tired,” Jaehyun says again, defiant, but he can’t seem to open his eyes, and his voice is a low mumble.

Taeyong smiles despite the disappointment in his chest. “Goodnight,” he whispers, gently ruffling the younger’s hair.

He’s about to withdraw his hand when Jaehyun curls a hand around his wrist and pulls, makes him stay where he is. His palm and fingertips. When did they get so rough? Calloused, he remembers, he’s been working. Skin unaccustomed to toil, breaking and burning. His stomach twists in that moment, queasy with how oddly intimate that feels.

He’s distracted by that, barely notices that Jaehyun is blinking, sitting up, letting go of his wrist.

“Told you, not tired,” he says.

Taeyong smiles. “Your hands,” he says. “They’re hurt, do you want some medicine for that?”

“I’m alright, hyung,” Jaehyun says, looking down at his open palms. “They’re pretty ugly, though.”

“Shut up, I’ll get the medicine,” Taeyong says, pushing the covers aside and getting out of bed. He walks over to his bathroom, rummages through the medicine cabinet. He finds it, a tin of liniment and returns to the room.

“What did you do all day?” Jaehyun asks.

“I studied some,” he says, climbing back into his bed.

“That’s it old man? This is what happens if I’m not around?”

“Shut up brat,” Taeyong chuckles. “Okay, what else… yeah, my biology teacher told me to read this book, right, it’s about this Japanese army doctor, he was on the frontline, during the war.”

“Mm,” Jaehyun supplies, plumping up his pillows and leaning back against them.

“Hand,” Taeyong says, and Jaehyun sticks his right hand out, palm up. Taeyong opens the tin, dips his finger in and gathers up a bit. “It was about all these mad things he did to save soldiers, and it just got me thinking, you know? Maybe that’s something I want to do, I mean not in the army, there’s no war now, but just… saving people. Being a doctor. It sounds fancy.”

He takes Jaehyun’s hand in his, and gently, as softly as he can, he rubs the liniment in. His stomach squeezes again, leaves him nauseated. Oddly, horribly intimate, like he’s too close to Jaehyun and somehow that’s terribly wrong.

“Doctor Lee Taeyong,” Jaehyun chuckles.

Taeyong grins.

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” he says, releasing Jaehyun’s hand. “Other one.”

Jaehyun obediently submits his left hand.

“Ooh, tingly,” he says, squinting at his medicated palm. “You know, I think you’ll be good at this.”

Taeyong snorts. “Because I can rub goo into callouses?”

“No. You’re smart, and kind. And halmi says that about her doctor, that he’s so smart and so kind. And you can rub goo into callouses. You’ve got it covered,” he says.

“Shut up,” Taeyong says softly. Another long moment. He flushes furiously, head low and his eyes on Jaehyun’s hand.

“How was work?” he asks.

“Mostly shit,” Jaehyun replies, now closely regarding his left palm. “But I met this girl, the owners’ daughter.”

“Oh?” he says, capping the tin and sliding it onto the nightstand.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun says, squirming a little so he’s lying down again. “She’s such a brat, hyung, if you think I’m a brat, you should meet her.”

Taeyong chuckles.          

“You know what she did yesterday? I was nodding off in the storeroom – I wasn’t sleeping on the job, okay, the delivery man hadn’t come yet so I didn’t have anything to do – yeah, so she came in and tied my shoelaces together, and I fell on my damn face.”

Taeyong laughs harder, snorts when Jaehyun sticks his arm out to show him the purple bruise below his elbow, evidence of how much of a brat this girl really is, he says.

“And she’s been calling me dimwit oppa all week,” he complains.

“All week?” Taeyong asks, his stomach twisting.

“Yeah, since I met her on Saturday, she hasn’t stopped.”

“Saturday,” Taeyong breathes. There’s a whole week of Jaehyun’s life that he knows nothing about and that’s so new for him.

“I swear, if she weren’t a girl she’d be dead by now.”

And to Taeyong, that sounds like fondness, like tenderness, and it leaves him feeling ill.

“Should I turn the lights off?” Taeyong asks.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun says again. The room falls into darkness, and Taeyong slips under the covers, throwing them over Jaehyun, too.

“Goodnight, Jaehyun,” he says.

“Night hyung.”

 

 

Taeyong is sitting on a bench by the side of the main road near the house. There’s a cool, sticky August breeze ruffling the pages of his book, raising gooseflesh on his arms, and he likes it. The faint buzz of mosquitos circling around his head as he sits in the yellow orange light of the streetlamp.

Over the past couple of weeks he’s found that sometimes, by the time Jaehyun gets home, he’s too tired to talk, and that bothers him because sometimes, he waits all day to talk to Jaehyun. Hours of stir crazy only to find himself disappointed.

So today, he’s decided, he’ll meet him halfway. On the road he has to take to get back home. He can’t be asleep when he’s walking, and at least then they could have ten minutes of conversation.

He looks up. It’s nearing the time Jaehyun would be returning from work. He scans the dwindling stream of pedestrians passing by. A small group of American soldiers. A couple of noisy teenage boys. Middle aged men and women returning to their homes.

Jaehyun. His eyes on the ground, straight black hair parted messily to one side, Taeyong’s old shirt over broad shoulders, white, with thin grey stripes, fading black trousers, neat leather shoes. Pale, pale skin, and that crisp walk.

He closes his book, gets to his feet hurriedly.

“Hey,” he says, just as Jaehyun is about to step around him with a muttered apology.

Jaehyun stops, looks up at him. When their eyes meet, he almost laughs at that moment of blankness before Jaehyun registers that Taeyong is standing in front of him.

“Hyung?” he says, his eyebrows raised, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I just… needed some air, I guess.”

Jaehyun still has that look of muddled surprise on his face.

 “Are you alright? How long were you here?” he asks.

Taeyong shrugs. “It wasn’t long or anything. I’m fine, I was just bored so I came out for a walk and sat here for a bit. And then you showed up, so…”

And now Jaehyun is smiling, and he’s nodding. That pale, pale skin and his neat, pretty smile.

“Well, let’s go, or do you have something you need to do?”

Taeyong shakes his head and smiles, and they’re walking side by side back to their home. Perhaps a foot of distance between them on the fast emptying road, heads down, eyes on their feet, comfortably quiet.

“Hey hyung,” Jaehyun says after a moment. Taeyong hums. “I heard them talking, the owners. There’s protests in Daegu, did you know that?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“They said they might have to start closing shop early, soon. That we’ll have curfews if the protests come to Seoul.”

“It’s possible,” Taeyong says. “But it’s also possible the Americans will curb them in the South and we won’t be affected.”

“And if they don’t? If it all gets messed up again and all the shops close down all over?”

And that’s when Taeyong understands Jaehyun is worried. Fifteen years old, worried that he’ll be out of a job, worried about adult things like protests in Daegu, too young to really know enough about them, old enough to be afraid. Too young to handle everything by himself, old enough for pride.

“You’ll be safe, Jaehyun,” Taeyong says. “Those people at the bakery, they understand that you need the work, they’ll take care of you.”

A beat of silence.

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I will,” he says promptly. Foolish, really, he has nothing to back it up with.

“Doctor Taeyong has it all figured out?” Jaehyun chuckles.

Taeyong doesn’t say anything more. Too young to know his place in the world, old enough to know he needs one.

 

“Hey hyung?”

Taeyong blinks sleepily. It’s Sunday morning, and he isn’t even slightly willing to be awake before noon.

“What time is it?” he says, rolling over and staring bleary eyed at his alarm clock. It reads eleven ten.

“Hey, sorry,” Jaehyun says sheepishly. “The bakery ahjumma invited me over to have lunch with them, and I don’t have anything to wear.”

Taeyong sits up slowly. “You’re busy today?” he mumbles.

“Only the afternoon. I’ll be back after lunch and we can do something in the evening,” Jaehyun says.

“I’ll see what I have,” Taeyong says, climbing out of bed and shuffling over to his closet. He’s looking through his shirts for something that would fit Jaehyun, sleepy and strangely uncomfortable in equal measures. He picks one, light blue, and hands it to Jaehyun.

“Thanks hyung,” Jaehyun says, holding the shirt up against his himself to see if it would fit. “And hyung, can I have your old math textbook again? Ninth grade.”

“What do you need a ninth grade textbook for?” Taeyong asks blankly.

“It’s for Soohyun,” Jaehyun says.

“Soohyun?”

“I told you, the owners’ daughter. She asked if I could help her so I told her I could ask you for your old books, you know you have all these helpful notes and that textbook you have is just so much better than the ones they make us use at school…”

Soohyun.

That’s her name. She’s around fourteen, then.

“…hyung?”

Taeyong starts. “I’ll look,” he says.

 

It’s around eight thirty when Jaehyun comes back and launches himself into Taeyong’s bed. He’s not really sleeping, just lying down because he’s run out of things to do, finished his share of waiting for Jaehyun to return. But he grumbles nonetheless when Jaehyun climbs all over him.

“What is it?” he asks, tired, as if he’s just woken up.

“I don’t know, I’m happy,” Jaehyun says, rolling off of him and onto his back by Taeyong’s side.

“Must have been a good lunch,” Taeyong says, and he knows he sounds sore.

Jaehyun turns his head to face him. “It was,” he says. “It felt great, hyung. That ahjumma, she fusses over everything like boy, you need a haircut and omo omo you eat so well, and ahjussi too, he’s just… he’s a lot like appa. It felt so… it felt like… you know?”

Taeyong softens, his hand reaching out to smooth Jaehyun’s hair, watches his eyes flutter shut.

“And Soohyun too, hyung, I like being around her, she’s just so bright and she’s…”

Taeyong’s hand stills.

“That’s good,” he says softly. “That’s wonderful, Jaehyun, I’m glad you’re happy.”

 

Taeyong walks down the street, equal measures of hesitant and decisive. He’s had it, he’s so tired of feeling neglected, so tired of the gaping silence of his evenings. He just wants to see Jaehyun, he thinks. He just wants to say hello, maybe drink some lemonade together, he could take a ten minute break, couldn’t he? Just ten minutes off work to talk to Taeyong, that would be alright, wouldn’t it?

The bakery door is glass and iron, and he leaves fingerprints behind when he pushes it open. The bell above the door tinkles pleasantly. He looks around. That friendly ahjumma and her husband are behind the counter, there’s one boy wiping a table in the corner. He stands there stupidly for a moment.

“Evening, young man, can I help you?” the man says, and Taeyong takes a hesitant step forward.

“Ahjussi, I was actually wondering if…”

He pauses and tries to figure out how to say this without sounding stupid.

I was just wondering if Jaehyun is around? My house is too quiet. Could you maybe tell him that?

“Oh, you looking your friend?” the ahjumma says.

Taeyong nods, grateful that she recognized him from the times he’s come in with Jaehyun to buy sweets, so he doesn’t have to find a way to word that.

“That way,” she says, pointing to a nondescript door off to one side. “He’s out back. Just keep walking straight down.”

“Thank you,” he says.

He pushes the door open, and it’s a dimly lit hallway, clean, but old and unkempt, peeling paint and water stains on the walls. He walks down, peers into a musty storeroom. Empty. He keeps walking. There’s a blackened patch on one wall, looks like a bulb blew.

He emerges out the back door, and there’s a courtyard of sorts, a small van parked in the middle with its back doors open, and there’s a girl standing there, toying with the ends of her two long braids, a pretty pout on her face. She looks about thirteen or fourteen, still a young body, a clear, fresh face. He’s still looking at her when the pout slips and she laughs happily.

She’s pretty, he thinks, no doubt that she’d grow up to be beautiful in a most innocent sense, perhaps not conventionally beautiful, but certainly something electric and lovely.

And that’s when he sees Jaehyun stepping out of the back of the van, shirt sleeves rolled up, one crate full of bottles under one arm and the other hand raised and rubbing his head with a grimace on his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, oppa, did that hurt?” she asks sweetly, but she’s still laughing.

“Of course not, Soohyun, oppa’s real strong,” Jaehyun says, still grimacing. He’s a little sweaty, his hair a little disheveled, his skin a little flushed.

Soohyun.

“Oppa you’re the strongest ever,” she says, snorting a little.

When Jaehyun reaches over and pets her hair affectionately, it doesn’t quite register in Taeyong’s mind, he just stares blankly, his lips slightly parted in shock, suddenly queasy again. Fondness, that’s what he’s seeing. Tenderness, nothing like he’s ever received from Jaehyun.

He isn’t sure what he’s feeling but it turns his stomach and flushes his skin and makes the tip of his nose burn like he’s about to cry. He takes a step back. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself when he feels like he’s interrupting something so private. He turns around, walks back the way he came, stomach turning and turning, and he doesn’t understand it.

That’s a lie, he thinks, when he pulls the glass and iron door open, when the bell tinkles pleasantly behind him. That’s a lie, because he understands perfectly what he’s feeling, but it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t make sense.

And that’s a lie, too, he knows it makes perfect god damned sense. Boys aren’t tender like that with each other, he knows, but he’s never been so soft, so tender with anyone else, and god, dear god, he’s not brave enough to admit it.

He takes a breath, soothing the burning in his throat, at least till his feet carry him home, he thinks.

 

 

**Present Day, Seoul.**

“Hey.”

Jaehyun looks up from the video he’s watching on his phone. Funny Cats (omg you’ll die laughing) 101.

It’s Taeyong. He’s walking over, and Jaehyun watches him, pulling his earphones out of his ears and shifting a little on the couch to make space.

“Hey,” he replies distractedly.

“What are you still doing up?” Taeyong asks. He’s settling down next to Jaehyun now, moving a cushion out from under him, getting comfortable.

He’s in loose pajamas, a soft, worn out olive green t shirt. Looks nice against his skin, Jaehyun thinks. Against steam pinked clean skin, still a little damp from the shower, all the makeup wiped off so he can see his real color, the dark around his eyes and mouth. So much more approachable than that icy ethereal thing he is on stage. He likes him like this.

“Jaehyun, you good?” Taeyong asks again, quieter.

“I don’t know,” Jaehyun says. “I’m just tired, I think.”

Taeyong chuckles. Straight white teeth and that laugh that sounds like hiccups. “Sleep, then? It’s late,” he says.

“Yeah, I meant,” Jaehyun scrambles. “I don’t know what I meant.”

He meant he never realized what it means to be in the spotlight, all the time, watched, all the time. He meant he doesn’t want to think about the white of Taeyong’s hair and how pretty, pretty, pretty that looks against his skin and how that makes him feel, because he can’t really do anything about it, because that’s crazy, and he feels so uncomfortable in his own skin. And he meant he feels silly even feeling like this, because he’s living the dream, and he’s really being stupid.

Taeyong is watching him, he realizes.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “I’m pretty tired.”

“I know,” Taeyong says slowly. “I know you’re tired. But you’ve been doing so well, Jaehyun, I don’t know if I say that enough. You’ve been doing a great job.”

Jaehyun can’t help the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth. It’s so sweet, he thinks. That he hasn’t the slightest idea what he meant.

“And you know your perm looks fantastic on you?”

Jaehyun snorts. He has no idea, he thinks.

 

 

**1946, Seoul.**

Taeyong waits at his spot, his spot now that he’s been there every evening for the past three weeks, so he could walk back with Jaehyun. The same routine, the buzzing mosquitoes, the yellow light, the dwindling crowd, the cool breeze, now with a little bit of bite, a different book in his lap. Somewhere in the distance he can hear the faint sound of cheering, someone shouting something.

And in all those three weeks, he hasn’t once gone back to the bakery during Jaehyun’s work hours.

He sighs and checks his wristwatch. It’s way past the time Jaehyun usually returns from work, and he’s been waiting for a good hour and a half now. He stretches. Stiff from sitting on this cement bench.

He’s worried.

 

 “He’s gone out with some boys,” the ahjumma at the bakery says. “They said they’d have a look at the youth rallies.”

“The youth rallies?” he says.

Now he’s really worried. He’s been reading about the violence with which the police came down on the riots in Daegu. Jaehyun shouldn’t be there, even if Seoul has been quiet so far, he shouldn’t risk being there, it’s too dangerous.

“I told him not to go, but… it’s close,” the woman says. “They should be a couple of streets down.”

“Thank you,” he says.

 

He’s wandering stupidly, he doesn’t really know where he’s going, but he’s aware that the shouting is getting nearer, the cheering growing louder, till he’s wandering into the fringes of a crowd.

_Independence is our right_ , someone is saying, the voice strange and distorted on the megaphone. He looks around, trying to place the speaker among all these people, and there, he finds him, standing at the top of a flight of stairs, holding the megaphone. It’s overwhelming, the crowd around him and their clamoring, it’s just so foreign to him, having only seen this in passing from inside the safety of his father’s car.

He tries to look for Jaehyun, any sign of that familiar face, but there are people everywhere, and he feels so lost. He isn’t quite sure where he is.

_The Americans came into our country, first, they promised us independence. Then, they told us they would keep the Japanese scum government, and we asked, is that independence?_

He scans all the faces around him. Young men, factory workers by the looks of it. Signboards written clumsily, _the unions stand for the PRK._ No Jaehyun. He feels entirely out of place here. He doesn’t belong, not with his newspaper acquired context of this whole situation. He doesn’t know what it means to lose a job, he doesn’t know what it means to put all his faith, all his hope for a better life in a political party, in a new government, in a few men in suits.

_They promised us independence, and again they formed a Japanese advisory council to the government. We said sir, we know how to rule our country…_

Taeyong steps back. It’s too much to handle. That pit of worry in his stomach, the proximity of people all around, it’s too loud.

_…we said sir, we demand independence, we demand the PRK government, we demand a unified Korea…_

He looks around frantically for Jaehyun, and he sees him, a little way off, focused on the speech. That looks like Joon Jae, standing beside him.

_…we demand our country be returned to us…_

“Jaehyun!” he yells, but it’s lost in the clamor. He tries again, tries to push through the crowd towards him, but he’s stuck. “Jaehyun!” he calls out, waves, and he catches his eye for the briefest moment, the briefest moment of recognition, and at that exact moment, someone shouts something from all the way at the front of the crowd, and all at once, they start pushing. Like some unstoppable wave, they push out in all directions and Taeyong is carried like driftwood.

He panics, his breathing shallow, his mind struggling to understand what’s happening.

“Jaehyun!” he yells again, tries to hold his ground against the current, but he’s nothing against the mob. Searches frantically for another glimpse of that face.

“Hyung!” he hears behind him.

“Jae - wait,” he says. “Wait, stop, what’s going on?”

“Police!” someone shouts back.

He tries to look for Jaehyun’s face, but he’s lost him, tries to run, but he gets pushed down, someone steps on his back, and his heart pounds in his ears, his arms and legs trembling, trying to push himself to stand while all these feet hit the ground around him, running, running. He manages to stand. Push, push, push through this wave of elbows and arms, and shove, run, searching, searching, but he can’t find him, and he can’t really breathe.

Finally, finally, he breaks away from the crowd, the sickening, suffocating crowd, till the noise slips away, till all he can hear is the heavy sound of his breathing, his feet hitting the pavement, echoing in an empty street. He slows to a stop.

He’s still trembling. He takes a few deep breaths. Brushes gravel off his palms, scraped and bleeding. Calms his hammering heart. He’s not sure how long that takes.

He looks around, orients himself. Oh, he thinks. Oh, I know this, go left, another left, and a right for the main road, and he needs to move, he needs to find Jaehyun. Where is he? Did he fall? Did he make it out? He’s about to take a step forward when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He starts, turns around, ready to run again.

It’s Jaehyun. Thank god, it’s Jaehyun.

He’s panting, sweaty, flustered like he’s been running too. He has both hands on Taeyong’s shoulders now, holding tight.

“Where the fuck… what the hell, hyung?” Jaehyun says, eyebrows pulled together like he can’t decide if he’s worried or relieved. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Taeyong stammers out. He’s just too overwhelmed by what’s happening to know what to feel or say. “Are you al…”

“No you’re not, look at your shirt, look at your hands, fuck,” he says, and his hands are cradling Taeyong’s bloody palms. “What the hell were you even doing there?”

“Funny story…” Taeyong says, cracking a smile. “I was waiting for you, but you wouldn’t show up so I got worried and came looking for you and well… then this.”

“That’s so stupid, you’re so stupid. Do you even know these streets?” Jaehyun is frowning, swallowing thickly. “I thought you got arrested or got trampled to death or something.”

“Now that would be a really funny story,” Taeyong says sheepishly.

Jaehyun glares. “Shut up,” he says.

Taeyong chuckles, sheer relief filling his lungs and slowing his heart.

“No, don’t laugh, you could have been hurt!”

“You could have been hurt too,” he points out. “What were you even doing there?”

“I don’t know, Joon Jae hyung sort of dragged me to it… wait, no, stop. You shouldn’t have come. You’re crazy, you’re… what were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I just… didn’t want you to get in trouble,” Taeyong says with a dismissive shrug.

Jaehyun glares at him again. “Let’s go home,” he says.

 

It happens when they’re walking up the driveway to the house. Dark, quiet trees loom on either side, the lights of the house glimmer up ahead, when all the sounds of night and silence are thick around them, the leaves rustling and the insects buzzing and the frogs croaking and their footfalls on gravel sound out.

Jaehyun reaches for his wrist, grips tight, stops him in his tracks and has him turning around in confusion. He wraps him arms tight around him, tucks his chin against Taeyong’s shoulder, knocks the air right out of his lungs and Taeyong wants to say that’s because he was caught by surprise. That it has nothing to do with the sickeningly sweet warmth of Jaehyun’s skin, the attention he was craving, the comfort of being needed and being held in arms desperate to hold him.

“I didn’t mean to be an ass, I was just so fucking scared,” Jaehyun mumbles.

“Hey,” Taeyong says, and his voice sounds strange, too thick. He swallows. “Hey, now…”

“Fuck, I… hyung. I don’t know, alright, it’s just, you got hurt. Because of me, you got hurt because of me…”

Taeyong shifts, quietly, slowly, because he’s so afraid of breaking this moment, doesn’t want to do anything that could hurt this moment. He wants to cling to it as long as possible. Slowly, he lets his palms slide over Jaehyun’s back, the slightest sting of broken skin against fabric, till he has his arms wound around him.

“I’m fine,” he whispers. “I’m completely fine. I was so worried about you, and I wanted to see you so bad, so I came looking for you. That was my decision, and you don’t have to feel bad about that, alright?”

He lets Jaehyun stay like that for as long as he wants, just so happy, tucked against the sticky skin of his neck, against the humid warmth of his body. His heart pounds, his breathing shallow, so content in the here and now, and so afraid of this magic breaking. He doesn’t know how much time slips by.

“If something happened to you, hyung, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

Taeyong shifts again, quiet, slow, till his hands are cupping Jaehyun’s face and his lips are pressed in a trembling kiss against the younger’s forehead. Magic.

Electric young girls don’t mean a thing here, nothing in this moment, he thinks. At least in the here and now, in these moments that won’t be spoken of in the morning, he’s sure, she means nothing. And he’s going to be content with that.

 


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I'm back. I'm so, so sorry I took forever with this update. I hope you're still with me hehe. This chaper may be a little draggy and mostly shit, and for that, also , I'm really sorry. This is turning out to be a GIANT fic, like wtf it feels like it's never going to end lol. Anyway, thank you for reading, thank you for commenting and leaving kudos, it really encouraged me to finish the chapter and update. Thank you <3

**102 nd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

The palanquin is set down a few feet from Jaehyun, just in front of the entryway of his uncle’s home. Embroidered blue cotton flutters, servants stepping forward to help the lady. Jaehyun smiles, moving ahead of them, offering his hand. None of them will have the privilege of caring for her, not while he stands there.

She takes his hand, gathers her skirts with the other and steps out carefully. She looks thinner than he remembers. “Mother,” he says. “My dearest.”

“My son,” she proclaims, one radiant smile brightening her face, her fingers tightening around his wrist, her eyes searching his face. “Why are you cheeks so sunken?”

He chuckles. “I have lost neither appetite nor sleep, do not worry yourself,” he says. “Was the journey very difficult?”

“No, no, not difficult. I can claim to have done no work in all the hours between Gongju and Hanyang,” she says.

“Either way it could not have been more difficult than you, mother,” he says. “You really gave us all so much trouble, insisting on traveling so far considering the state of your health. The servants could have brought my things.”

“My health is spectacular,” she chides. “And besides, when the only Jung son has brought honor to his family, shone so brightly, surely his mother must be here to tell him she is prouder than proud.”

“Well, go on then,” he says with a small smile.

“I am prouder than proud,” she says.

Jaehyun chuckles and tugs at her hand. “Come now,” he says. “Uncle has asked me to show you to your quarters. He says he is deeply sorry for not being present to greet his favorite brother’s wife, but he is preparing for his visit to the North.”

“Oh, no, he must have his duties. So must Yong…” she says, and bites her tongue. “I am sorry, I meant his highness. He must be terribly busy.”

“He will be here to see you, mother, do not fret,” he tells her, helping her up the steps.

“Oh, hush, he is a prince, he would not have time for an old woman from Gongju,” she says dismissively.

“You are not old,” he says. “You are his mother as you are mine, and he will be to see you.”

“Well…” she muses.

Jaehyun chuckles. “We will keep you company till you tire of us, but I hope you will not mind, mother, I will not be home for some hours in the afternoon tomorrow. I have some matters to tend to.”

“Of course, of course. The two of you are not my little miscreants anymore. You must be busy.”

 

 

Jaehyun dismounts his horse, setting his feet down gingerly. The stench rises slow and thick, the smell of urine and feces, probably from some jetgan somewhere. There’s a pool of something that looks like vomit, too close for comfort. He looks around. People are milling. The shacks are falling apart. The children loitering around the gates, looking for the next man dressed in silk, the fluttering fabric in palanquin windows. There’s a lazy resignation to the way they’re draped over the stone walls of the city.

He sees a girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, sitting outside a shack, pounding millets into flour.

“Pardon me,” he says, stepping up closer. She doesn’t seem to take notice of him above the sound of the mortar. He clears his throat. She startles and looks up, scrambling to her feet to bow, visibly afraid. “Pardon me, may I speak with your parents for a…”

“She’s dirty,” a voice says. Jaehyun turns. A young boy is squinting up at him, scrawny, but his chest puffed out. “You know it my lord, they’ve all had her, you don’t want her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she’s diseased, all used up, at least ten men have had her,” he says, walking over to the girl, standing in front of her, a barrier between Jaehyun and her.

Jaehyun sputters. “I did not mean… goodness, I did not mean… that. I only wished to speak to her parents for a moment.”

“Our parents? What for?” he says warily.

“She is your sister?” Jaehyun asks.

“Yes,” the boy says.

“I could speak with you, for a while then, sir,” Jaehyun says, beginning to understand the situation. A yangban man approaching a young lower class girl, a pretty young girl, all alone and unchaperoned. Her younger brother trying his best to protect her with clever lies where his strength is lacking.

“Of course,” the boy says.

“What is it your parents do?” he asks.

“Mother’s out buying things, father scoops horseshit. In the Hae house.”

“And about those children over there?” he says. “What about their parents?”

“Why do you ask?” he says.

“I am simply curious. I am not from here, I am from Gongju. I wish to know more of Hanyang.”

“Well… that doesn’t make much sense, but if you really wish to know, my lord then… you see that boy over there?” he says, pointing to one child, maybe three or four years old. “That one’s mother was a widow, and they said she was seen speaking with some man, and she was a dishonorable woman so she killed herself and now here he is. That boy’s mother was a concubine. They said she was poisoned by the Yoo lord’s wife. I think those three were palace women’s children, so they were left here when they were babies. The two of them, the shamans took care of for a while, now they’re old enough to take care of themselves, so… ah, that one…”

Jaehyun stares. His head is spinning. One surpassing the other, stories of young children crushed under the weight of yangban wrath, having done nothing wrong.

“Jihyun what are you doing, go inside!” a woman says, and the young girl steps back into the shadows meekly. “My lord, can I help you?”

She’s standing with a covered basket, a chima draped over her head, her heavy breasts displayed, bare, as a sign of having borne a son. He dips his head in acknowledgment.

“He was only answering a few questions for me,” Jaehyun says. “Thank you, young sir, you have helped me immensely. I will be on my way now.”

 

 

It is nearing evening by the time Jaehyun returns to his uncle’s home. He dismounts his horse at the entryway, a servant coming to return the horse to the stables. Jaehyun climbs up the stone stairs and steps inside. He hears muffled conversation in the distance, from the tea room. He looks up curiously.

“The Prince, my lord. He has come to see your mother,” a servant explains.

The door to the tea room slides open, and Taeyong steps out with his mother, Jaehyun’s own mother, Soohyun and her mother. Soohyun is laughing about something, and Taeyong is smiling fondly at her, the mothers poring over some embroidered cloth.

Jaehyun smiles.

“I told you he would be to see you, mother,” he says.

“Oh, Jaehyun, you were right. I was hoping you would return in time,” his mother says happily. “But you have just caught the prince on his way out.”

Jaehyun bows to the two other ladies, gingerly bows to the prince, too, in the presence of all the servants, he does not wish to appear insubordinate. When he rises again, he can see the amused smile on Taeyong’s face.

“You have disrespected me greatly, Jaehyun, failing to be here when I came to visit,” he says.

“I do apologize, your highness, I had some business to attend to,” he replies.

“What business is this, that it takes precedence over your prince?” he teases. Jaehyun does not miss it. Not a prince. Your prince.

“There is nothing that takes precedence over you, your highness. I was not aware you would be coming at this time, else I would have postponed it,” he says.

“Well I suppose that could not be helped. It is a pity Jaehyun, but I am afraid we must depart,” Taeyong’s mother says.

“Of course, I would not delay you. I will see you out,” he says. He stands there solemnly, waiting for them to finish saying goodbye to the two Jung ladies. His mind is still sick with thoughts of abandoned infants, children begging for their next meal, the fringes of their society. Sick, he thinks, how sick. While they bow and dance around etiquette, children are starving.

He follows the visitors to the courtyard, where the servants and attendants stand waiting. When Taeyong’s mother has been helped into her gama, and the servants lift the litter onto their shoulders, Taeyong speaks.

“Mother, you go on, I will depart shortly and catch up with you.”

“Is something the matter?” his mother says.

“Nothing, mother, I simply wish to speak with Jaehyun for a moment and I would not have you waiting for me.”

“Very well,” she says. “Do not delay, we have other obligations tonight.”

“Of course mother,” Taeyong says, and watches the litter carried out of the compound. He turns to Jaehyun, reaching out, his hand curling in the sleeve of Jaehyun’s jeogori.

“You seem perturbed,” he says.

“I am,” Jaehyun replies softly. “Worry not, my love, I will speak to you of it when you have the time to spare.”

“Your gaze has not left the ground since the moment you walked in, do not tell me not to worry,” Taeyong says, his pretty eyes searching.

Jaehyun chuckles. “Thank you for worrying,” he says. “But my health and happiness are safe in your hands. I am only thinking.”

“What of?” Taeyong asks.

“It is dire,” he says, and shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts. “I am only thinking. I have not finished thinking, and…”

“And you cannot speak until you have finished, for you cannot present to me a flawed thought.”

“Yes. Yes, that is exactly right.”

Taeyong chuckles. “And now I must tell you that…”

“That thought is often heavier than stone, and you are here to share my burdens.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says. “Be it thought or stone.”

“Nothing changes between us.”

Taeyong smiles, a smile he saves only for Jaehyun, he knows that much. “As long as you know it,” he says. His hand slides down over the fabric of Jaehyun’s sleeve, slips into Jaehyun’s waiting palm, their hands slotting together for the briefest moment under the cover of the folds of their sleeves, and Jaehyun tightens his grip.

“May I embrace you?” Jaehyun asks quietly.

“There is a guard watching,” Taeyong says. His hand slips out of Jaehyun’s grasp.

Jaehyun looks over Taeyong’s shoulder, and sure enough Taeyong’s personal guard stands at the gates, watching for anything that could be a threat to Taeyong’s safety.

“You do not miss a thing,” he says, resigned. “I must learn to remember that we are no longer in Gongju.”

Taeyong’s eyes are still searching, an apology now lurking behind them. Jaehyun smiles.

“Do not worry, I will come to you,” he says. “Let me think.”

“I will wait,” Taeyong says.

“Ride safely, my prince,” he murmurs. “Sleep well.”

“And you, scholar,” Taeyong replies. One foot in the stirrup, hoisting his weight up onto his horse. “Finish your thinking quickly, dearest, do not worry me further.”

 

 

Taeyong walks briskly by his mother’s side. She came to his quarters sometime in the morning and sat before him calmly and told him they would be visiting the former king. She was dressed modestly, and Taeyong wondered why she had not dressed in her best robes, her best jewels. She refused to tell him why, despite his surprise and curiosity, she just told him to have patience and follow her, and that is what he did.

He looks over at her, at the attendants behind her carrying boxes wrapped in embroidered silk. The same trepidation builds in his heart as that very first day in the palace three years ago. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, how long he has been living in this palace, because if he thinks about it, he has met his father perhaps ten times in all those months. In the past decade, really.

An ageing eunuch smiles and bows deeply to them, announcing their arrival. His wrinkled hands draw open the sliding door.

His mother turns around, gestures for her attendants to remain where they are, and Taeyong takes the boxes from them.

They enter the former king’s quarters, Taeyong’s stomach twisting and turning, his heart hammering. Taeyong knows he is staring but he cannot help it. Sheer silk curtains obscure the king’s bed and private living space from the common area. Jade green and crimson adorn the ceiling, all the rafters and wooden brackets painted in fine detail. The dark wooden floor gleaming rich and earthy with the dim yellow of a hundred candles and lamps. A richly embroidered mat covers a part of the floor, with cushions to kneel on, arranged around a tea table.

The king is nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” he mouths to his mother.

Her gaze shifts from where she was looking, a chair and a floor cushion in a corner of the room, over to the private area. He follows it, finds a hazy silhouette of the bed just visible behind sheer curtains.

“Come,” the king’s voice says. “Do not linger like strangers.”

He turns back to his mother, and she looks as if she has been struck across the face, shocked, pained. He is about to call out to her when he feels her hand on his back, pushing him forward. He takes a few tentative steps, the gentle nudge against his back the only thing keeping him moving forward.

He parts the curtains and steps through, and he freezes.

King Seongjeong is lying in his bed, surrounded by medicinal incense, a royal physician in white robes, handing him a bronze bowl with some fragrant concoction in it.

His mother’s hand pushes against his back again, and he remembers to bow.

“Be gone,” the king says to the royal physician, and then he turns in Taeyong’s direction. “Come closer.”

Taeyong steps forward.

“Come on, boy, let me see you.”

He takes a few more steps forward, kneels by the side of the king’s bed and lays the boxes out before him. Ah, he thinks. Now it makes sense. Quince tea and saffron for the king’s health, his mother said, earlier that day. Now it makes sense.

“For your health, your majesty,” he says thickly.

“Quince tea?” the king says. He nods.

“Jisoo, would you not make some? It has been an eternity since I drank tea made by your hand.”

“Of course, your majesty,” she says, but she’s fumbling, uncertain, and Taeyong is shocked by it. He has never seen his mother like this. Moments pass in silence, while the tea steeps in the water the servants brought in. Taeyong keeps his eyes on the floor.

“You are a masterful swordsman,” Seongjeong says.

“It is an honor, your majesty,” he says, bowing respectfully.

“You are still lacking in academics, still lacking wisdom,” he muses.

“I will try harder, your majesty.”

The word is foreign on his tongue. Abamama.

“You have grown well, there is strength in your body.”

“You are generous with your praise, your majesty.”

“Come on, boy, say something. Do you have nothing to say to your father? Do you have no questions?”

Taeyong throat tightens.

“I will probably be dead soon, do you have nothing to say to me?”

“I will pray for your health, your majesty,” he says quietly.

“Disappointing,” the king mumbles.

Taeyong’s eyes burn.

 

 

“Why did you say nothing?”

“I did not say nothing. I said I would pray for his health.”

“That is what I mean,” she says. “He gave you the opportunity to converse with him. You should have used it. You should have asked him about the current political climate, you should have spoken with him about the years and years of his reign. There was a world he could have taught you and a thousand questions you could have asked and you…”

“That is not what I wished to ask him,” he says. “I had questions mother, I had a thousand questions to ask him and neither you nor he would wish that I ask them.”

She stares at him, unused to the sound of his wrath, taken aback that he could ever raise his voice with her.

“I do not…”

“Shall I ask them?”

“Taeyong…”

“Why has he thrown us aside?”

“My son…”

“Why has he never spared me a glance? Is he blind? Can he not see that every moment I spend studying the texts and wringing my body to the bone in the training fields is not for you, not for me, but for him? Does he know the abnegation I resign myself to, so I can be a son he could be proud of? Or any sort of son at all, what have I done to fall out of his graces? Should I have asked that mother?”

“Stop,” she says. “Stop. Enough. Lower you voice.”

“I apologize, mother,” he breathes, bowing deeply. “I will take my leave now.”

 

“Hyungnim,” Jaehyun says. “You have sent for me?”

They stand together in the darkening back alleys behind Seonggyungwan. Taeyong came to see him after days passed without having seen each other, and Jaehyun became tired of waiting and wrote to him.

_Your highness,_

_I continue to exist._

_Yours,_

_Jaehyun._

Taeyong had written a response designed only to infuriate him further, and he knows it. He could even imagine the gleeful look on his face when he wrote the words _Dearest Jaehyun, that is truly a miracle_ and nothing more in that letter. Days passed in silence since that exchange, and now Taeyong is here, standing before him in this darkened alley.

“I have not seen you in an eternity,” Taeyong says quietly.                                         

“Well, after that letter you sent, I vowed to myself never to see you again, but it appears I could not turn down a royal summons.”

Taeyong smiles. “Shall we walk?” he says. “The woods are beautiful this time of year.”

“I am afraid I must return in a few minutes, or the masters will have my head,” Jaehyun says regretfully, and he does not miss Taeyong’s dismay.

“Oh,” Taeyong says, looking down at his feet.

“Has something happened?” Jaehyun asks.

“Nothing,” Taeyong says. “Tell me how your days have been.”

Jaehyun steps forward, his hands curling around Taeyong’s wrists and drawing him close gently, his arms wrapping around Taeyong’s waist, holding him close.

“Someone will see,” Taeyong breathes.

“No one will see, stay in my arms for a moment longer,” Jaehyun whispers. “Give me a moment to be grateful to god that I can hold you in my arms, that distance no longer stands between us.”

Taeyong shifts and rests his chin against Jaehyun’s shoulder wordlessly, their bodies fitting comfortably together. There it is, Jaehyun thinks, that faint scent of lavender he so longed for. He hopes it clings to him, to keep Taeyong’s presence with him tonight, after he takes his leave.

“Will you tell me what has happened?” Jaehyun asks.

“I went to see my father today. He has fallen ill,” Taeyong mumbles.

Jaehyun pulls away from their embrace, hands steadying on Taeyong’s shoulders.

“I hope it is not grave?” he asks.

Taeyong shakes his head. “The physicians believe it is not, that there is not imminent danger, but they have said that he ages, and his health is failing him fast.”

“I pray for his health,” Jaehyun says.

“That is what I said.”

“Pardon?”

“He asked if I had anything to say to him, and I said I pray for his health,” Taeyong says again, shrugging as if dismissing the whole thing.

“It was no lie,” he says, confused. He does not know why Taeyong brought that to his attention. He watches him hesitating around a sentence.

“It was a wasted opportunity, mother says. I could not speak. Not a word more. Perhaps I was a fool to have thrown away my chance at being his son,” he says slowly. His eyes are deep in thought, quietly pensive. Finally, Jaehyun understands.

“Hyungnim,” he says softly. “Your grace is in your unflinching honesty. You would hold your tongue sooner than you would feign pretense. If you could not speak, perhaps the words and the acts felt like pretense when you tried them.”

Taeyong’s gaze lifts, and he holds Jaehyun in it for a moment, watching him carefully.

“What is it?” Jaehyun asks.

“Give me a moment to be grateful to god for you,” he replies.

 

 

Jaehyun shifts uncomfortably. He is seated in the halls of Seonggyungwan. Master Won is about halfway through his lesson, speaking to the new admissions. A week has passed since he moved his possessions into the students’ quarters and began attending the lectures, and he is embarrassed to admit that exhaustion and homesickness are already at his heels.

“And if we were to examine the societal order of traditional Baekje…” the master says. It registers briefly. If he were honest, he would say he knows more about the weave of the mat he’s sitting on than he knows about traditional Baekje.

His thoughts drift idly. Taeyong has not had the time to see him since he began his lessons at Seonggyungwan, his only consolation in the brief letters he has received. An account of Taeyong’s day. An enquiry after his comfort, unfailing in every letter, regardless of brevity and the obvious lack of time, Jaehyun, are you well? Do not hesitate to tell me if you find yourself in need of anything at all, do not struggle alone.

And every time he reads those words he remembers his face, his big, searching eyes and his sincerity. And every time he remembers those eyes, he misses him so terribly, he wants to hold him, just to hold him till lavender clings to his clothes, and the skin of his fingertips tingles with the memory of brushing over his cheekbones. He wants to kiss him, he thinks in a whisper, as if afraid that someone would hear his thoughts. Quietly, warily, he lets himself remember, two kisses, only two they have ever shared that transcended friendship and brotherhood. One, a quiet library, longing. Two, twilight in a garden, longing.

Two kisses, and a lifetime, that is all they have shared.

He thought loving Taeyong from Hanyang would be easier than loving him from Gongju, all those hours and all that distance separating the capital from his hometown, but he was mistaken, he realizes. Hours do not stand in their way, but the distance between them, a mere student, and a prince of Joseon, remains. He cannot embrace him. His fingertips remember moments few and far apart.

He wants to see him, he wants to kiss him, but he wonders if their kisses can only be born of longing, if they couldn’t be simpler, if they couldn’t just be kisses instead of desperate, foolish, testimonies to their consuming, burning, longing. He supposes their beauty lies in their rarity. Their reach beyond societal order and…

“Master Jung, would you care to tell us what you are contemplating so deeply?”

“Societal order, of course, Master Won,” Jaehyun replies.

 

That evening, Jaehyun kneels at his desk at the Seonggyungwan library, with the records of Goryeo, of Silla and Baekje, copies of old, old texts, chronicles and histories of the dynasty before the glorious Joseon.  He is to finish the reading that Master Won assigned to him earlier that day, additional work for failing to pay attention while he was speaking.

He sighs and settles down. He would much rather be reading the treatises on economy, find way to help those children, find an explanation for their condition. But he cannot help this. He cannot afford to anger one of the masters so early in his years.

Traditional Baekje, before the new Confucian ideals were established, he reads, had myriad atrocities. Women would roam free and could work, not just as palace women, not just as shamans, or physicians, they could be highly educated. To think, he reads, that women would leave the modesty of the inner rooms, preposterous.

Preposterous. Yes.

How utterly preposterous.

Why?

He laughs at himself. Why, indeed. Because the texts say so.

Women who were free to go where they pleased. Women who could work and feed themselves when their husbands ran away or died, instead of returning to their families, a financial burden. Dishonorable.

Dishonorable, yes, unquestionably dishonorable.

But why?

He frowns.

His tutor back home had made mention of it, once. Of the Qing women in the north, who believed in the new ideals and stayed good and honorable but would still be educated and find work, not remain unseen in inner rooms and inside their litters. He was quickly silenced by the displeasure of the other families whose heirs he was teaching.

Yes, he thinks. The Goryeo dynasty stood for centuries. The Qing are strong and honorable. They cannot be all wrong. Why is it only dishonorable to us if a woman chooses to work?

Divine right and duty, he reads. It is a yangban man’s divine right to be in possession of the knowledge of Joseon, to hold literacy in his hands. It would only be squandered on women and the lower classes.

But his own mother can read, his own mother is familiar with the classics and religious texts, and she routinely discusses them with his father. Stimulating, wonderful discussions he has had the privilege to be part of. His own mother, a good woman, no doubt. His own mother, who had given away his baby clothes, toys, bags of grain to starving young mothers begging in the market streets. A good, honorable woman, no doubt.

She could read, she could discuss the classics, certainly not compliant with the new tenets. Those young starving mothers, they could not read or learn anything of the text but what the scholars told them. Abiding by the new tenets, they cannot read, cannot work, cannot fend for themselves. They have nothing, not numbers, not words, they have no skill but caring for a home, abiding by the new tenets, and now they have no home. They have nothing. Where has their honor left them?

Divine right and duty, everywhere he reads, divine right and duty used to justify a societal hierarchy that did not exist before. A sliding scale of superiority. The slave classes, the poor women, then the poor men, yangban women and men, all below the men of Seonggyungwan, the men of religion and god.

And so he reads, for hours, in the light of flickering candles and oil lamps, he kneels and singes his hair once, and stains his fingers with ink, rubs his burning eyes and sore neck, and he reads. More texts than Master Won assigned.

He searches, for this fragile thing, a woman’s honor and what that means. What makes a widow choose to kill herself before bringing dishonor to her name and her family? What kind of honor is it, that keeps palace women quiet, helpless and vulnerable to the advances of noblemen? What kind of honor is it that births children out of wedlock against her desires and through no fault of her own, and leaves those children on street corners to live or die as fate decides? What kind of honor would sooner see her family live and die in starvation, at the mercy of others’ charity, than see a woman work?

What is this honor the scholars speak of, he asks, if not chains around her ankles?

And he thinks, perhaps, there is more to this, more to the plight of those children, than just poverty and misfortune.

 

Taeyong is heading towards the gardens for a breath of fresh air when he hears the sound of footsteps nearing. A crowd, by the sound of it. He slows down and turns around, and immediately shrinks. It is Yeonsangun, dressed in his crimson dragon robes, walking briskly towards him.

“Ah, brother!” he says, the moment he notices Taeyong’s presence.

Taeyong bows stiffly. “Your majesty,” he says in greeting.

Yeonsangun slows to a stop before him. “How good to see you,” he says. “Is it not wonderful to see me?”

“Always, your majesty,” Taeyong says quietly. He does not know why Yeonsangun is speaking to him now, after months of ignoring his presence in the palace, after his humiliation at the training grounds, after their father silenced him.

“I hear you have visited the old man,” he says happily. “You brought him tea and massaged his feet like a dutiful child.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Taeyong says, beginning to understand why his brother seemed to suddenly take notice of his existence.

“I hear many things, brother,” Yeonsangun says, pausing for a moment with a strange smile on his face. “I hear that you were greatly distressed when you left his chambers.”

Taeyong stiffens, feels the back of his neck warming. He did not think anyone saw that fit of anger and hurt.

“Of course,” he replies, trying to think of something to say to explain his behavior. “No man would remain composed when his father is so ill.”

“Yes, yes, what a filial man,” says, turning to his attendants behind him. “Is he not filial?”

They bow deeply, their gazes lowered in fear and submission.

“It is only my duty,” Taeyong breathes.

“Yes, yes, of course. Your duty, to my father.”

Taeyong looks up sharply. “Your majes…”

Yeonsagun steps close, too close for comfort, and he leans in, his lips close to Taeyong’s ear and he whispers. “He has not looked upon your face, not once since you were driven from the palace, do you really believe you are his son? Do you really believe he thinks of you as his own flesh and blood?”

Taeyong gapes at him.

“Did he even spare a glance in your direction, you poor fool? You tried your best, you poor, dear, brother, but even in his deathbed he could not care less? Did that hurt you? Distress you greatly?”

“He… your majesty, I…”

Yeonsangun steps back and chuckles heartily. “I… I…” he mocks, and then he speaks loudly, for all to hear. “He has chosen me, you common cur. He has chosen me as his son, as King of glorious fucking Joseon, it has always been me.

“You are nothing. You will always be nothing, not his son, not king, so stop trying.”

Taeyong’s blood pounds in his ears, disgust and humiliation bowing his head with their leaden weight and he decides he must speak. Must say something. “Your majesty,” he says. “It was never my intention to be king. That is your right and you are the truest king.”

“Precisely,” Yeonsangun says. “I am the truest king, and I believe I have been good to you, brother. All these days you have lived quietly, such good, quiet curs, you and your mother. Like little mice in this palace, living on father’s mercy, I have not spared you a second look. But if you were to raise your filthy head from the scraps we have thrown you I would not be so kind.”

Taeyong stands there, his skin flushed hot with rage, his hands trembling.

“Well,” Yeonsangun says, patting his cheek gently. Taeyong almost physically recoils from the touch, but he remains stock still, fists clenched tight to keep his trembling hands steady. “Good day to you, little mouse.”

 

“The new king has spoken with you?” his mother says softly.

“He has,” he replies. A shiver runs down his back when he recalls the interaction.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing, mother.”

“He has not spoken with you since that day at the training grounds, Taeyong. He must have said something. What did he say?” she asks, leaning forward, anxious.

“It was nothing. He was only seeking to humiliate me, or perhaps frighten me. Nothing new, nothing worth discussing,” he says dismissively. He does not wish to talk about this.

“Humiliate you? How? Did anyone see?”

“The maids, his attendants, a few eunuchs. How does it matter?”

“People will talk,” she breathes. “Did you retaliate?”

“No, mother, he is king. How could I retaliate?” he says. Anger rises hot up his spine and he rolls his shoulders as if willing it down.

“You cannot afford to look weak, either…”

“Like a little mouse,” he mumbles.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, mother.”

 

Night has fallen, and Taeyong’s lessons and obligations for the day have come to an end. He sits by his desk, slowly folding the letter he wrote a few minutes ago.

_Jaehyun,_

_I hope you are well. I have not seen you in days. I understand that study keeps you occupied, dearest, and I hope that your efforts are noted by the masters._

_I wish to tell you about my days since I last wrote, since I last saw you, but Jaehyun, much has transpired that cannot be penned. I wish to ask after your needs like every other letter that has found you in Seonggyungwan, but today I find myself in need._

_I must see you. I must hear your voice, Jaehyun. You are gold and touchstone, both, and I need your worth to remind me of mine._

_I cannot do with meager minutes. Do not spare me scraps, dearest. I ask for hours, I ask for excess, I ask to be indulged the way only you can indulge me, I ask for you._

_Yours,_

_Taeyong._

Written in glistening black ink that dried slowly to a deep, dull grey. His fingers trace the words for a moment, just slightly granular ink, here and there, where the ink caught small particles of the inkstone he ground impatiently. He folds the paper and slips it into an envelope. Ready to be sent in the morning.

He feels silly, having begged for his attention. In all the years they spent together in Gongju, he had not begged like that, always reliable, always Hyungnim, always the center of Jaehyun’s day. He feels like a fool. But he knows, from that moment in the former king’s chambers, from that interaction with his brother, from the fact that his mother cared more for keeping up appearances than about the hurt and anger swirling in his stomach. He knows. They are no longer in Gongju.

This is Hanyang. Gilded lies and pretty threats Hanyang. Silk clad suffocation, hide a dagger underneath your pillow, smile when he humiliates you and bow like you liked it Hanyang. He needs a breath of Gongju today, tomorrow, sometime soon. He needs Jaehyun, honesty and love, Gongju and laughter, Jaehyun.

 

 

“Yes, master Jung?” Master Won says, exasperated.

“Sir, do you love the Seon chim?” Jaeyhyun asks.

“Pardon?”

“Do you love Seon chim and slave children and the orphans as you love your children?”

“Of course not. How absurd of you to suggest that I would have any sort of love toward them.”

“But sir, I have been reading a great deal, and the texts say that as yangban, we are the guardian class," he says, shifting on his knees. "That we are to care for the lower classes with the intelligence and prosperity god has given us, since the lower classes have base instincts, and knowledge and wealth would only be squandered on them. Am I wrong, sir? The texts say this, that we must care for the less fortunate as parents care for children who do not know how to care for themselves, am I wrong?”

“You are not, that is what the texts say, but they never mention that they must be loved,” the man scoffs. A hushed sort of laughter ripples through the hall. 

“Forgive me sir, but if we bear no love toward them, how are we to care for them sincerely? Why should any man feel the need to care for a slave or a street urchin that he only feels disdain for?” he asks, frowning, a building frustration in his gut.

“Why, because it is his divine duty, master Jung.”

There. Divine duty, again, divine duty. “Ah, I see," he says. "And how are we to care for them, sir?”

The elderly scholar clears his throat, considers his question for a moment. He adjusts his robes, sky blue and rich. “In any walk of life we may find this divine duty," he says. "Consider this. As landowners, we are given the divine right to be wards of their lands, to gather the profit of their toil and use it to their benefit. As scholars we are in possession of knowledge and wisdom, and we may safeguard and use it to help them in difficult situations.”

“And who…”

“Master Jung…” the man says, sighing deeply. Jaehyun knows he is testing his patience but he must have his answers.

“Just a moment sir, who is to decide how to use the profit for their benefit?”

“The landowner, of course. He is their warden and they are his wards. Of course it falls upon his discretion to decide how much to give them and what to do with the money. When you were still a young child, did your mother not decide what food to give you, and how much of it you need?”

“Ah, yes, sir, but the thing is, my mother bears immense love for me. It was neither divine duty nor right, it was love and blood that led her to care for me. There was no room for greed. What if, sir, this man were dishonorable, this landowner, this warden of the slaves? What if, in exercising his divine right, he were unscrupulous? What is to stop him from keeping the money for himself and failing to use it for the Seon Chim? He bears no love for them, has no bond of blood with them. And how are they to protect themselves from this? We have kept them ignorant of their rights, and we have kept from them the means to raise their voice, for it is our divine duty to keep the knowledge safe in our hands, and we have left them vulnerable to…”

The master clears his throat again, slapping a few scrolls onto his desk, impatience written clear across his face. “If they are being exploited so, they may raise the matter with a yangban equivocator, master Jung, or are you suggesting we gather all the slaves and teach them law and administration and sing them the classics, too, if we were to go so far?” he says, squinting down at him. Jaehyun shrinks back. He knows he cannot push him any further without strict consequences. “I thought not, now enough from you, let us carry on.”

 

 

Jaehyun walks along the long sunlit corridor to his quarters in Seonggyungwan, seojae, the western dormitory. His lectures for the day are finished, and a familiar feeling is taking root in stomach again, the same feeling that has kept him up for the past few days.

Disillusionment, stark and sickening.

He had worked so hard to come here, put in hours and hours to lift himself from Gongju to the highest places of academic achievement. Seonggyungwan, where the nation’s most enlightened minds worked for the betterment of their society, home to hundreds of bright young men and hundreds of books, old and new. He had worked, to lift himself from Gongju so he could be closer to Taeyong.

And yet, every scholar he speaks with has no answers for his questions, every master talks in circles, every book he reads only augments his doubts. They cannot be working for the betterment of society, he thinks. Society is outside these towering walls and Gingko trees and high spirituality of this institution. Reality is in crumbling city walls and the filth of jetgan and the humbling reach of hunger and poverty.

“Jaehyun,” someone calls.

He looks up from the neat stone tiles he was staring at. A young man stands at the turning towards dongjae. A royal, somehow distantly related, but of royal blood nonetheless. A senior member of Seonggyungwan. Jaehyun smiles and bows deeply in greeting.

“You are Jaehyun, are you not?”

“Yes sir,” he says. Jungjin? Was that his name?

“I was coming back from the markets,” the man says. “I saw a man standing outside, waiting, and I recognized him as a messenger from the palace, you know, my cousins have written to me from the palace before.”

Jaehyun nods hesitantly, unsure of what he wants to say. Joon… Joon something.

“I asked him what he wanted, he said he had a message for a student. I asked why he couldn’t just leave it with all the other letters in the caretaker’s room, but he said he must give it only to a Master Jung Jaehyun.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, sir, I am grateful that you told me,” he says, bowing deeply. His heart skips a beat and his cheeks dip with dimpled pleasure at the thought of another letter from Taeyong.

“You have friends in the palace?” the man asks.

Jaehyun straightens up. “Yes, Prince Taeyong…” he stops. Something about the way that man is looking at him, tall, gangly in the most ungraceful way, paler than death and oddly intimidating. Something about the way he asked that, unfriendly and condescending. He doesn’t know what urges him to lie, but he does. “Prince Taeyong’s mother.”

“How do you know the lady?”

“She and the prince stayed at my home in Gongju for years. Sometimes she asks after my health as a mother would,” he says. That is not a complete lie, she does ask.

“Ah, Jung. You are that Jung,” he says. He raises a hand, and Jaehyun almost flinches, almost, but he remains steady. The man pats him on the shoulder and smiles. “Well, Master Jung, welcome to Hanyang.”

“Thank you,” Jaehyun says. He watches him turn and walk down the corridor towards dongjae, the eastern dormitory, his blue robes fluttering behind him in the slight evening breeze, into the long shadows of late evening. He swallows thickly. That was an interaction that he neither understood nor enjoyed. Was he being sized up? His connections being tested?

 

Jaehyun shifts in his bedding. Unable to fall asleep. He cannot stop thinking about the letter he received from Taeyong earlier in the day.

I ask for you, he said. He did not sound happy, some quietly lingering shadow attenuating that man’s colors, his bright, beautiful colors and his bright, beautiful laughter. He had seen it the last time they met, but he had chased it away and kept him bright and beautiful in his arms for a few minutes that day. He fears a jest and a moment’s embrace will not suffice this time.

He wrote to him immediately.

_Your highness,_

_Tomorrow will be my first lantern festival in Hanyang. I have heard much about the beauty and exuberance of the celebrations here. The masters have been kind and promised us an evening to visit friends and family and to see the celebrations for ourselves._

_I think I will visit the markets at sunset. I hear the stalls by the persimmon trees sell the most exquisite lanterns of all. I await the evening with all I have._

_Yours,_

_Jaehyun._

 

 

Jaehyun stands by the persimmon trees, dressed in his best jeogori from Gongju, a deep violet colored fabric, heavy black beads weighing his gat down and keeping it in place. In one hand he holds a simple paper lantern, soft yellows and blues, and in the other, a bag with a full set of women’s attire, two strips of calligraphy.

He came before sunset, purchased his lantern, and stood like a sentinel by the bare trees. He watched as the shadows grew longer and the slow march of gloaming against the dying light, lamps being lit one by one and the calls of vendors rising slowly like a swelling tide. All around him, the bustle grew, the narrow streets of the marketplace filling with people.

He stood and searched every passing face, every gat, every jeogori, every shoulder that brushed past him.

He sighs, rolls his tired shoulders, looks down at his feet for a moment, and when he looks up again, he sees him. In little glimpses between all the people passing by, his eyes, his nose, his mouth cast in shadow, hidden by the nervous dip of his chin when he fears he would be caught. Jaehyun smiles, true and happy that he can see that face again, those eyes searching the crowd for Jaehyun’s face.

He steps forward, maneuvering through the crowd carefully, so as not to damage the lantern, closer to Taeyong. In that moment, with the gentle ebb of people all around them, all the scents and sounds of life all around them, with the push and pull of a crowd all around them, Taeyong’s eyes find his face in a myriad, and he blinks once, still slow to realize, and then he smiles. Slow and relieved. In that moment, in Taeyong’s smile, like Jaehyun was the shore, like Jaehyun was his home, caught in the midst of all these people and all this life, Jaehyun is a man brought to his knees.

 

 

“Is that for your sister?” Taeyong asks. They are standing in an empty alley, and Jaehyun is holding out the clothes he has purchased earlier.

“No, it is for you,” Jaehyun replies. He watches, bemused by the puzzled tilt of Taeyong’s head, reaching out to examine the clothing.

“Is this not a chima?” he asks.

“It is.”

Taeyong’s lips purse for a moment. “Forgive me, Jaehyun, but I do not understand. Shall I give it to my mother? What do you mean?”

Jaehyun chuckles, mischief tickling him to laughter. “I mean,” he says. “I wish to go to the festival with you and release a lantern into the sky with you and it would look positively bizarre if two men were to release a lantern together.”

Laughter rumbles deep in his chest when he sees the confused sequence of emotions passing through Taeyong’s face. The briefest semblance of a smile that tells him Taeyong is happy with the thought of spending his evening with Jaehyun at the festival, then the knitting of his brows when it finally sinks in, the parting of his lips and the disbelief.

“You wish to dress me in women’s clothing?” Taeyong sputters.

“Precisely,” Jaehyun chuckles. “For tonight you shall be Taehyun, my darling sister.”

“Taehyun? Could you not be Jaehee? Why must I be the woman?”

“Well, the chima would serve two purposes for you, hiding the fact that you are a man, and hiding the fact that you are the prince. And besides, I thought of this idea, and for that I believe I receive certain privileges,” he teases. “And you forget, my prince, that you are smaller than I am.”

Taeyong stares at him, shocked speechless for a moment before he regains his composure.

“Do you wish to be beheaded tonight?” he asks flatly.

“Any day I would gladly die by your hand, my love,” Jaehyun says.

Taeyong scoffs. “You will not flatter your way out of this you devil.”

Moments later, Taeyong is stepping out of that alley dressed in a crimson jeogori and chima, a pale pink outer chima shielding his face and hands from view.

Jaehyun chuckles heartily. “Do not sulk, it suits you,” he says.

“Do not incite me, I will not hesitate to strangle you with the belts.”

“Such violence does not become you, dearest sister.”

“I still wear my knife at my hip.”

 

 

Taeyong carries the flimsy paper lantern in one hand, holds the chima in place with the other, and they walk side by side down the bustling streets. His whole body is sore from the strain of constantly fearing that it would somehow be revealed that a prince of Joseon was seen in the market streets dressed in women’s clothing, all his muscles stiff and his skin bristling at the slightest noise. But no one spares him a second look. For all they know, the pair of them are brother and sister, a young maiden chaperoned by her responsible brother, or perhaps even a recently wedded young couple.

Jaehyun has begun to look older than his years, he thinks.

With every step they take, he relaxes a little, begins to find comfort in this newfound anonymity, and his gaze begins to wander. Stalls and street corners overflowing with paper lanterns, strung up on lines, mounted on wooden poles, stacked up on thick mats. All muted pastels, bursting with light. All around, the hum of life, muted conversation in the distance, children laughing, peddlers selling lanterns and sweet treats for the children and serving up bowls of fragrant, steaming soup, all around him, there is celebration, all the pleasures of being alive.

The faint smell of alcohol clinging to the man who pushes past them and totters off down the street, laughing merrily, arm thrown over his friend’s shoulders. The plain young commoner girl standing in her father’s shop with a basketful of trinkets, speaking with a boy. He watches her, the way she looks up at him, the eagerness she tries to hide, the slightest upward tilt to the corners of her mouth, the quiver of her lips and the nervous discomfiture with which she handles herself. He watches him, the way he rests his elbow against the wooden racks she is currently arranging the trinkets upon, the way he smiles, wide and charming, earnest, he sees it, the way his mouth doesn’t cease moving for an instant, as if stopping to take a breath would break their moment, and she would slip away from him forever.

He laughs quietly.

He turns to Jaehyun, walking by his side, serene, smiling, comfortable amongst this human confusion, watching people working, selling, laughing, loving, lamp lit and glowing as if that were his place all along. Walking along and watching this human confusion, learning it, learning people and their ways and their joys and sorrows, he learns it all and he loves the learning of it.

“Sister,” Jaehyun says. “Shall we release our lantern here?”

Taeyong nods, waiting as Jaehyun lights a candle from a lamp at a nearby stall. He tucks his chima into place to keep it from slipping while he unfurls the lantern and holds it up for Jaehyun to light. The chunk of wax at the bottom lights slow, burns golden and blue, and Jaehyun straightens up to help Taeyong hold it up. They wait, for hot air to fill the paper lantern, swelling slow, and Taeyong watches Jaehyun in that flickering golden light, his eyes trained on the sliver of Taeyong’s face he can see lit up by the lantern.

“Is it lifting?” he asks. Taeyong nods again, feeling the buoyant tug of the lantern.

“Just a moment,” Jaehyun says again. “Hold on, sister, do not let go yet.”

He releases the corners he was holding up, and he reaches into his Jeogori. Taeyong watches, curious, a strip of silk with familiar strokes of hanja covering it. He watches him crouching, tying it to one of the crossbars at the bottom of the lantern. He cranes his neck to see the words, but he cannot. What is it, he wonders.

“Now,” Jaehyun says, getting to his feet.

Taeyong releases it, watches it rise slowly, haltingly, and Jaehyun comes to stand by his side to watch it too. His heart jumps into his throat for a moment when it dips and sways dangerously under a gust of wind, both their hands lifting to steady it, holding on till it rises above their heads, the lettering on the silk just coming into view. Jaehyun. Taeyong. Written in Jaehyun’s handwriting, blessed by the shrines, together in spirit, for the heavens to know.  He gasps like a fool.

It lifts with their names fluttering in the breeze like butterflies carrying the lantern on their wings.

Taeyong lifts himself, to the tips of his toes, so the tips of his fingers can touch that fluttering silk, his eyes stinging for a moment, body thrumming with emotion he cannot put into words in this mute anonymity so he lets the lantern rise above them and he turns to Jaehyun.

“Shall we follow it?” Jaehyun says, watching it being carried by the breeze along the road. Taeyong nods, a gleeful laugh slipping from him without his permission, and he reaches for Jaehyun absently, his hand hidden by his long sleeve, and he slips his hand into Jaehyun’s. The other’s long fingers tighten around his hand, and he tugs forward, urging him to follow. They have to crane their necks now, to see that fluttering above them, and the breeze is picking up so they are hurrying, laughing, friends, brothers, lovers.

 

 

“It has been difficult for you,” Jaehyun muses. They lie on their backs in a grassy clearing in a wooded grove. Taeyong toys with the hem of his jeogori, having changed back into his own clothes despite Jaehyun’s protests. “Shall I kill him off?”

Taeyong chuckles. “He is the king, Jaehyun, birds are killed for chirping in his direction.”

“I bow to no birdkiller,” Jaehyun says, smiling when Taeyong laughs harder. “Hyungnim, I cannot stand that he hurts you so, and I can do nothing about it.”

“No, Jaehyun, I… he does not hurt me,” he says. “I am only disappointed, because he may be right. I had questions, so many questions, and I thought if I came here, I could find my answers, but now I only have more questions. I wonder why I must struggle like this, in vain, to earn my father’s respect when he could not care less if I were alive or dead. I wonder why I live like that, when I could just… if I could live with you in Gongju, the rest of our lives like tonight has been, like our childhood has been.”

“I would fill your life with laughter and love, wherever we are, whatever our circumstances.”

“I would never ask that of you,” Taeyong says dismissively. He tries, and fails, to hold back a smile.

“You need not ask, I will promise it nonetheless,” Jaehyun says.

Taeyong turns to him. Fair skin and long lashes, steadfast and honest and such a painfully handsome face.

“Stop it, you fool. Enough about me, please,” Taeyong mumbles. “Have you finished all your thinking? Are you distressed still?”

“I… I have thought,” Jaehyun says. He brushes an ant off his clothes absently. “I think I, too, have questions with no answers, and I think I must work to find them. Regardless of how they choose to humiliate me, how they choose to ignore my questions.”

“They?”

“The masters at Seonggyungwan.”

“Oh, Jaehyun,” Taeyong says. “It has been difficult and disappointing for you, too.”

“I suppose so,” he chuckles. A moment passes in silence, save for the owls and the buzzing insects, a flutter of wings in the hush of night. “When I came to the city I found atrocities I could not believe, hyungnim. Poverty, nothing like I have seen in Gongju. I thought perhaps I was just too young to know poverty, too protected to see the truth, so I asked father. I wrote to him. He wrote back, hyungnim, the poorest of the poor in Gongju are leagues above the slum children and slave women of Hanyang.”

“That is because your father spent his whole life making it so. That shack behind Seowon, to teach widows and orphan children hangul and numbers, and basket weaving and embroidery… the home for the aged, the ceiling on interest rates for money lending, he has made this happen.”

“You are perfectly right, and you stood by him and learnt from him. I was too young and foolish to care, I regret that now… now I have seen it for myself, I cannot look away from it. Hyungnim. I have asked the masters in every way I know how, every chance I get, and they simply do not care. They are proud, they are bound in lofty ideals and they believe that the kingdom flourishes. They are not concerned with the plight of the poor, and when I seek to turn their gaze from the skies to the ground, I am told I am a fool.”

Taeyong reaches out, rests a comforting hand on Jaehyun’s wrist. True, he has heard of this before. But always spoken of with such disdain, as if the slums and slum dwellers were only an eyesore, some leeching disease that must be cleared from the glorious Joseon. Never with the pain and frustration and sympathy that he found in Jaehyun’s words. Not with that sort of kindness he loves in Jaehyun. True, he has thought of this before, but it never once occurred to him that he could work to change things.

“It does not matter,” Jaehyun says. He shifts a little, links their fingers together. “At the end of all my thinking, I have come to believe that there is much good to be done here. In Seonggyungwan, in Hanyang, in Joseon. And if they will not help me, I will do it myself. My father did it before me, so can I.”

“I will help you,” Taeyong says. It is something about the determination, the fire in Jaehyun’s eyes, steadfast and honest, a life sworn to do good, a breath of Gongju in Hanyang. “You will do nothing alone, I will stand with you.”

Jaehyun smiles, tightening his hold on Taeyong’s hand.

“They cannot stamp us out. They cannot, not before we do good,” he says, leaning in close and pressing his lips to Taeyong’s forehead, gentle kisses like whispers of reassurance, against his brow and lids and the tip of his nose and when he laughs, Jaehyun laughs too and presses his lips to Taeyong’s.

“I think that sounds wonderful, Jaehyun,” Taeyong murmurs, when the kiss has ended, breathless and dazed and his heart pounding.

“I know, hyungnim, I am truly an enlightened thinker,” Jaehyun mumbles, and Taeyong laughs again, rolling onto his side to reach his mouth better, and he kisses him, with gratitude and respect and adoration and the beginnings of desire kindling in his chest.

They hold each other close, bodies and mouths pressed together, sighing and blushing and discovering with the desperate press of fingertips into skin, of lips and tongue, that a kiss need not be all innocence and promise, and the hours slip by, and the night sky keeps them safe.

And two young men find strength in each other, purpose for their lives, kindness in an ocean of apathy, all in the hush of night and the fragrant grass and the rustle of the wind and a thousand lanterns like silent prayers drifting high above them.

 

 

“Where have you been?”

Taeyong starts, the bundle of cloth slipping from his hand when he turns to the source of the voice. A figure emerges from the shadowy recesses of the corridor leading to his chamber.

“Mother,” he breathes, scrambling to pick up the clothes.

“I was told you had retired early from your lessons on account of ill health, so I became worried and I came to see you,” she explains. “You were not here, Taeyong.”

“I was just…” he fumbles, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Lying?” she asks.

“No, mother, I…”

“Where have you been?” she asks again, firm, perhaps accusatory. He stares at her, the disappointment in her eyes twisting guilt and anger equally in his gut. Why should he be afraid? Why should he feel guilty?

“At the markets,” he says. “To see the lanterns.”

“Would you lie to me, too?” she says quietly.

“It is the truth,” he replies firmly. A little louder than he intended to. He is unwilling to feel as if he did something wrong, when the past few hours have been the only good thing to happen to him in weeks. “I am not lying.”

She stares at him for a moment, still calm, still coldly intimidating the way she always is. And then she speaks.

“You write letters that you hide from me, again and again the masters tell me you seem distracted, you lie to them to leave your lessons, disappear for hours, and you return with a woman’s clothes in hand. Tell me, do you take me for a fool?”

“No, I would never think that, and I do not know what you are suggesting,” he says.

“You may tell me who she is now, Taeyong,” she says. “Your woman, who is she? Is she from a good family? No, how could she be, visiting a man at this time of night. She cannot be a respectable…”

“Mother!” Taeyong says, horrified. “I am telling you the truth, there is no woman. I have been to the market with Jaehyun, that is all. He bought this for me in jest, it does not belong to any woman, mother I would never…”

“Stop lying to me, Taeyong. The letters?”

“I am not lying to you! All my letters are to Jaehyun, and nobody else.”

“Then show them to me,” she says. “I am sorry, my son, I swore to myself I would never be the mother that grows like a weed in her son’s life, but you leave me no choice. Show them to me, all the letters you hide so carefully in your wardrobe.”

“How did you…”

_I long for your embrace, dearest, I am barren earth awaiting rain. I will come to you._

“I am your mother, you fool,” she says. “I watch over you in ways you do not understand.”

“Have you read them?” he breathes.

_I met a boy, Dongjun._

“No,” she replies. “Your life is your life, I would not look at the parts of you that you choose to hide from me, Taeyong. I am not that kind of mother. I only watch over you, so when the day comes, I know where to look for your secrets, I know to hide them from men who wish to use them against you. I would not look without your permission, Taeyong, so I am asking you now, show them to me.”

He pales. His throat dry and his hands trembling. “I… I cannot,” he says quietly.

“You cannot?”

He shakes his head.

“Ah,” she says. “To be caught in a lie. How humiliating.”

She pins him with her gaze for a long moment.

“Your irresponsibility may have cost us our place in the palace, you damned fool. I am here, I am working as hard as I can to have big men rally around your name, in Taejon, in Gongju, in Hanyang and Pyongyang, and you are out bedding loose women in the dead of night, lying to me, lying to me, your own mother… Do you know how easy it is to be thrown out of Hanyang?”

“Perhaps that would be best for us,” he says weakly.

He does not expect it. He should, he always knew she had it in her, that hardened edge to her smile, of women who have seen the worst in life. A sudden rush of movement, he thinks perhaps she lost her balance for a moment and he confusedly reaches out to steady her, but her small, delicate hand strikes him hard across the cheek.  He staggers back a step, shocked. He did not expect it.

She has struck him only once before, only once when he was six years old and he wandered off to the stream without telling anyone in the Jung household, and when he returned, hours later, her panic and her relief brimmed over as anger for his callousness and she struck him. He cried, he remembers, after a shocked silence, the sting in his cheek and that sudden grating violence caught up to him, and he cried, and she held him and said she was sorry, so sorry, and she made him swear never to leave her like that again.

He looks up at her and finds her looking at him the same way as that day so many years ago. That same mix of panic, relief, anger, brimming over. There it is, he realizes. The same circumstances. He disappeared for a few hours, and she became afraid, for his safety when he was a child, for the security of his place in the palace now. She became afraid.

Or perhaps, perhaps, for those few hours, she had no control over his life, and she became angry.

“You will not dare,” she says. “You will not throw away everything I have been working for over some loose girl. You will not dare.”

He swallows thickly, blinking back tears. “You are right,” he breathes. “I apologize, mother. I will take my leave now.”

 

 

Before he goes to bed that night, he kneels at his desk with all of Jaehyun’s letters spread out before him.

_Master Hong’s nose hair continues to grow, and I do believe some day it may usurp the role of his mustache…_

_Hyungnim, I have begun to grow a beard but mother says…_

_Mother has fallen ill again, and the physician says there is not much he can do for her. It worries me…_

He searches, for all the letters with the softest confessions, all the letters that spoke of what Dongjun had told him, everything that betrayed the truth of their relation, he looks for them, reads them all and commits them to memory, and then he burns them. Flames licking slowly up the thin paper, golden and blue, blackening and curling and destroying the evidence. His cheek stings, and his eyes sting, and he watches the letters turn to ashes.

The others, he folds again, carefully, slips them back into their envelopes, lays them out in a neat stack in his wardrobe again.

 

 

 “Your mother is here,” Choi Jin says, leaning up to retie the knots of Taeyong’s jeogori. “She waits for you in the tea room.”

“I will be with her momentarily,” Taeyong says.

“Shall I throw out the ash, your highness?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” he says distractedly. “Since when do you ask me before throwing out the rubbish?”

Choi Jin shakes his head, his gaze lowered to the ground. “I thought it may be important to you,” he mumbles.

Taeyong looks up at him sharply.

“I will go and bring the tea,” he says, bowing.

“Did you hear?” Taeyong asks him. “Last night, did you hear our conversation?”

“I heard nothing, your highness,” he says.

Taeyong regards him carefully. “Bring the tea,” he says.

The young eunuch boys deeply again and leaves the room. Taeyong remains, standing stock still, staring after him for a moment.

 

 

“It has occurred to me that you have questions,” his mother says, pouring a cup of tea. She looks uncharacteristically tired, the age beginning to show. He says nothing, quietly accepting the cup. She sets the pot down gently and sighs. “I cannot give you answers for all of your questions, my son, but may I seek to answer as many as I can?”

It is not pride that leaves him rigid and uncomfortable before her. It is the humiliation of their last exchange, the helplessness of being unable to prove his innocence, the realization that he has changed irreversibly in his mother’s eyes as a boy who beds loose women. The gnawing sense of suffocation.

“Let me begin by saying this. We have not fallen from your father’s good graces, my child. Everything he does, he does for your safety,” she says. She watches him, senses his impatience and growing frustration, and she stops speaking. She takes a trembling breath. “He… I loved him deeply, my dearest, and I believe there was a time when he bore the same love for me. I was his before he became king, I was his and he was mine.”

His body tenses, his jaw tightening. He is unprepared for this conversation.

“I left everything for him. He was not favored for succession to the throne at that time, but I loved him, and I… dishonored my family when I came to him. My family, dearest I have not seen them in twenty years. But fate had its say, and the line of succession was turned on its head and the time came for him to rise to the throne,” she says. She pauses, takes another calming breath. “I was not considered a fitting match, my dearest, I was just a woman with no family, I was… not…”

Her voice trembles, and Taeyong shifts uncomfortably. He has not seen his mother cry. Despite everything, he finds he cannot bear the thought. “Mother,” he says softly.

“He married her, Yeonsangun’s mother. She became what I should have been. Wangbi,” she says, quieter, more controlled. “He still came to me. He still loved me, and for that I could not leave him. I stayed on, my dearest, all those steps lower than the queen, wangbi, the title I longed for belonging to another. She had her son, my love, she had the crown prince but she was nothing to him while I was still by his side.”

She reaches for his hand, holds it delicately between her own, and he tightens his fingers around hers, comforting, still reeling from what she is telling him. She has never spoken about this before. Not once, not once when he asked her why, why, why.

“And then I had you,” she says. “My whole word and right to happiness all in your small hands and the gurgle of your laugh. I loved you, I longed for your safety and health more than I could ever long for lost titles. He loved you, too. He loved you as he loved Yeonsangun, as a part of himself, and perhaps he loved you more, for you were born of love.”

Taeyong clenches his teeth again. He cannot believe it. Nothing she is saying is making sense to him. She frowns and holds onto his hand as if needing to be reminded that he is still there with her.

“Then why…” he begins.

“It was almost your fourth year when he left the capital to negotiate terms at the northern border. I found you… I found a young man in your play room, a rug pressed against your face, you were suffocating, trying to scream and your arms and legs were catching on his robes but he stayed there unflinching, so I found my dagger and I tried to cut him, but he grabbed at my throat so I screamed as loud as I could, slashed at him as hard as I could to keep you safe till the guard came running.”

“Someone tried to kill me?” he breathes, shocked beyond words. She nods, raises a trembling hand to her mouth as if repulsed by the memory, paler than when she began speaking, as if the whole thing was draining the life from her bones.

“You… you do not remember it. The guard, thank god for him. It was Kim Jae, still a young man then, and he tried capture that brute but he escaped. I looked down at you, my darling son, and my heart… I cannot bear to remember… it was my knife that cut you,” she says, and the tears she was fighting win over her, clinging to her lashes despite her attempts to blink them away.

“No, mother,” he says softly. “No, please.”

“That scar on your thigh, that was your mother’s mistake. I thought I lost you. You were so small and you lay there motionless and bloodied and I felt the life leaving my body and I asked god to save you, to return you to my arms. I said I would give everything up, everything I held dear if I could just have you,” she says, scrambled, messy, so unlike the composure she always maintained. Taeyong just stares, unable to comprehend this new information.

“And so you came back to me. The physician stayed with you for days, and healed your wound and fed you tonics and I never left your side, and Kim Jae never left us either,” she says, her hands now pressed against her eyes as if willing the tears away. She pauses again, and he listens to her breathing, slowly steadying, deeper and calmer. She places her hands on the table again, clears her throat.

“When your father returned, he was horrified. He was so ashamed that he let this happen to you, so he decided he needed to keep you safe, his baby boy, and he told me to take you and leave Hanyang. That Minister Jung’s brother would keep us safe in Gongju, keep you from jealousy and lies and politics.

“I was so surprised, Taeyong. I couldn’t understand it, I was such a naïve fool. A prince was almost murdered, and no royal inquiry was called for, no culprit was found and no effort was made to find one. I could not even raise my voice and demand justice, but I came to realize, slowly, as I prepared for us to leave, I came to hear the whispers carried in the wind. The wrath of a queen, they said. The wrath of Wangbi, drove us from the capital, drove you from your father, drove me from my love.”

Taeyong sits there, unmoving, he does not know how long. But he knows his mother is watching him. Waiting for him to say something.

“The queen tried to have me killed,” he says, stupidly. “And the king… he did it all to keep us safe.”

She nods.

Slowly, he reaches for her hands, gathers them in his, holds them reverently to his cheeks. He closes his eyes, afraid now of his own tears. “I am sorry, mother. I was a fool, I did not mean to disrespect you. I did not mean to worry you. I… you gave everything up to keep me safe and he sent me away to keep me safe, and I was an ungrateful fool. Forgive me,” he whispers. “I did not know, I did not know, and I was a fool for not knowing. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, you foolish child,” she murmurs, her hands gently smoothing his hair now. “Impress him as a son would his father. Make no mistake, have no doubt, you are his son. He knows it. He cares for you in the only way he is allowed it. You are a masterful swordsman, he said. He watches you at the training grounds. You are lacking in academics, he said. He asks after you, he speaks with Master Hong every fortnight. When he says to ask him questions, ask him everything that is on your mind. That is a son’s right, and you are his son.”

“I am his son,” he breathes.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she says again. “Whatever is done, cannot be changed, but we can keep it from getting worse.”

“How do you mean?” he asks.

“I have spoken with Minister Jung,” she says. “We have been speaking of it for a long time now. We were waiting for the right time, but perhaps the time has come.”

“For what?”

“He wishes for you to marry his daughter, Soohyun.”

The air leaves his chest in a rush, a sudden, silent exhale. His lips part in shock but he cannot find the words he needs. He cannot say no, he cannot, he has been backed into a corner, now, and he cannot say no.

“She… she is still young,” he says, his voice stuck in his throat.

“She will be of age soon,” she replies.

_I kneel here in Seowon and I play games with my mind, sometimes. I pretend you will never marry, that you would turn down all your matches and say there is a poet in Gongju waiting for you. Congratulations on coming of age, hyungnim. I hope you have enjoyed the poems I sent you._


	8. Eight

**1947, Seoul.**

Taeyong picks at his food cautiously. He’s not used to having lunch with his father, and he’s afraid that if he makes some kind of mistake, some momentary slip in his manners, if he slurps his soup wrong, that it’ll set him off.

“Shall we take a trip?”

Taeyong’s head snaps up. He isn’t sure if he heard right.

“I need to settle some matters in Mokpo. I’m selling the old house. I thought you might want to see it once before I do.”

Taeyong’s eyes widen, and he places his chopsticks down quietly.

“You’re selling the house?” he asks softly. The house filled with memories of summers with his mother and his uncle and his cousins. The beach and the tangerines.

“Yes.”

Taeyong’s hands settle on his thighs and rub up and down anxiously. He wants to say no, no, don’t sell the house, but he knows it has to happen, and he knows why. Nobody lets on, nobody tells him anything, but he knows there haven’t been any dinner parties in the past year, he knows that fast talking Japanese man hasn’t come by with _this exquisite pottery, 15 th century, or this lovely painting, very refined, it would suit your tastes just like this wonderful collection of wines, shall I pour you a glass?_

Nobody tells him anything, but he knows his father has started drinking in the mornings.

“I’d like that very much, abeoji,” he says softly.

Nobody tells him anything, but he hears the muttered words in the school hallways.

_Fucking Jap sympathizers, they had it coming._

His hands clutch at the fabric for a moment. Perhaps it’s for the best, anyway, he thinks.

 “I’ll tell the old woman tomorrow morning. She’ll be helpful to have around. The boy too.”

His heart lifts for a moment at the thought of sharing his childhood with Jaehyun. The thought of taking him down to that beach and the wharf, down that winding road from the old house to town.

 “Yes, sir,” he says, and picks up his chopsticks again.

“It’s been a while,” the man mumbles. “Quite a while.”

 

“Mokpo?” Jaehyun says. He’s squatting on the pavement outside the bakery, snapping his fingers and wiggling them about, trying to get the attention of a small cat hiding behind the garbage bins. “Where is that?”

“Down south,” Taeyong replies. “Coastal town.”

Jaehyun looks up briefly, his eyebrows shooting up comically. “I’ve never been to a beach before,” he says.

“What, really?” Taeyong says, squatting down beside Jaehyun.

“Never,” Jaehyun says again, turning back to the little cat. “Come here cat, I won’t hurt you, promise.”

“He doesn’t understand, dummy,” Taeyong chuckles.

“You’re probably right,” Jaehyun says, nodding sagely. He regards the kitten carefully for a moment. And then he opens his mouth and begins to mew unashamedly. Taeyong stares for a second, amazed, and then he finds himself digging his teeth into his lip to keep laughter from slipping through. A small chortle finds its way out regardless.

“Hyung, shut up, he’s coming, look,” Jaehyun says, when the cat tentatively pokes his head out from behind the bin and mews back. A little white thing with brown tipped ears and startlingly green eyes. Taeyong smiles despite himself.

“It’s cute,” he says, watching it take a few frightened steps towards Jaehyun, watching him hold his palms out, like a gesture of peace and openness. The cat slowly, apprehensively approaches them, and Jaehyun just sits there with his palms open and his stupid sagely face till it sidles up close. His smile widens. He just watches for a bit. That boy with his broad shoulders and a deep voice, the voice that had cracked over summer and quietly transformed into this velvet rich sound that gets his muscles tight and his skin hot sometimes. This boy with a gaze like the crashing of waves, chaos and beauty, violence and quietness, everything. This boy who gets down on his knees on shitty pavements to mew at little cats.

 “Get packed by tomorrow?” he says. “I’ll take you to my favorite beach.”

Jaehyun smiles and nods again. “I’m excited,” he says, scratching the cat behind the ear, reveling in all the happy purring. “But why do you own a house all the way out there?”

“It was my mother’s place,” Taeyong says. There’s something about talking about his mother. He knows it doesn’t affect him like it used to, doesn’t bring that burning lump to his throat, doesn’t make his eyes sting and his voice tremble. But still, still, every time he speaks of her, he thinks he doesn’t quite sound right, like he still needs to remind his face to remain neutral and his voice to behave.

Jaehyun is quiet, Taeyong realizes. No sound between them but the soft purring of the cat, now brushing his head against Jaehyun’s trousers.

“He kinda looks like you,” Jaehyun says thoughtfully.

“Who?”

“The cat.”

Taeyong blinks. “He’s a cat.”

“I mean,” Jaehyun says. “By the powers of abstraction. He looks like you. Big eyes and a tiny nose and a cute little mouth.”

Taeyong flushes and his gaze dips to the ground, carefully considering the cracks in the pavement. When he looks up again, he thinks he sees a dusky red on the tips of Jaehyun’s ears. Maybe he imagines it.

 

The train shivers for a moment, and he hears that sighing, blaring, whistling noise, and it picks up speed. The station begins to slip by, hiding in smoke and steam and the uniform brown-grey of men and women in suits and dresses and hanboks. Faster and faster, like frozen frames punctuated by lampposts and telegraph poles, the city slips by and the country takes its place. He watches, plastered to the window like a small child, and he isn’t even embarrassed.

When his neck begins to hurt, he settles back in his seat. His father is in the seat across, reading a newspaper. He sighs.

He looks around, all men in suits. All newspapers and briefcases. He sighs again. He’s bored.

He wonders what Jaehyun is doing. How he’s doing in the third class compartment of the train, while he sits here stiffly in first class.

“Abeoji,” he suggests softly. “May I walk around a bit?”

He grunts his approval, and Taeyong grins happily.

 

It’s a mess, crowded, noisy, not remotely like the stiff, quiet atmosphere he has just left behind. He walked down a significant length of the train, passing suits and dresses in first class. White collar middle class in second. And here he is, where Jaehyun is. House help and factory workers and blue collar Jaehyun.

“Hyung!” a voice calls out.

He turns, and Jaehyun is pushing through a group of men standing in the aisle, and grabbing him by the elbow. Taeyong’s heart soars, a little flutter in his stomach that he has learnt to associate with sight of Jaehyun’s face.

“Hi,” Taeyong says stupidly.

Jaehyun smiles and pulls him closer. “I thought it was you,” he says. “What are you doing here? Does your father know?”

Taeyong nods and shrugs. “I got bored,” he says.

Jaehyun chuckles and tugs on his elbow. “We’re over there,” he says. “Come on.”

Taeyong follows behind closely, and he knows he’s being stared at. His white starched shirt and his dark trousers and neat leather oxfords don’t fit here with the grey brown hanboks and darned patches and shoddy shoes.

Jaehyun pulls him closer still, one hand sitting protectively on his back, his whole body shielding him from god knows what, but he knows he’s safe in that space Jaehyun makes for him. He’s been doing that of late. Maybe it’s just because he’s thicker around the shoulders now, just because he’s taller and broader, that brat thinks he’s all grown up.

Maybe it’s because of that one evening all those months ago at the demonstrations, when the crowd was pushing forward, panicked, chaotic, and somehow, he was pushed and pulled and swept along in that wave, and there was no room to push through, no familiar dimpled face in sight. And Jaehyun found him half an hour later, standing on the pavement in a side road, palms and chin scraped, shirt ripped and dusty.

He had worried Jaehyun.

So Taeyong lets it happen, the arm around his waist and that unnecessary protection. It’s not like he doesn’t like it.

“Pickpockets,” Jaehyun says, as if justifying his actions, speaking lowly into his ear, and Taeyong almost shivers at the whisper of Jaehyun’s breath against his neck. He quickly pats his pockets down, flustered, nods when he finds everything he expects to be there.

They squeeze into their compartment and Jaehyun’s grandmother is asleep, mouth open and snoring softly. He chuckles quietly.

“Hyung, come here, sit down,” Jaehyun says, and both of them squeeze into a small space on the berth, Taeyong sandwiched between Jaehyun and the window, with Seo eun halmeoni right across. He lets his eyes wander around their little compartment. People are settling down and unwrapping parcels and opening up stainless steel carriers and the smell of spice and salted fish wafts into the air.

“Halmeoni brought roasted sweet potato,” Jaehyun says, reaching into a paper bag. “Are you hungry?”

Taeyong smiles and nods. He didn’t realize it’s late afternoon already and his stomach is twisting a little with hunger.

“You sure there’s enough?” he asks.

Jaehyun nods. “She always packs extra for journeys. To share.”

Taeyong grins and takes the potato Jaehyun offers, all elbows and knees as they try to maneuver around in that small space. He settles back against the rexine lined berth and looks around again, fascinated by people and their uncomfortable proximity. Their lives spilling over into others’ lives, the sliding glass doors and drawn curtains of first class, the idea of being entitled to privacy is nowhere to be found.

Jaehyun’s arm slides over his shoulders, and stays there for the rest of the journey, and Taeyong molds himself to fit that small space, perfectly comfortable in a place he doesn’t belong.

 

 

Jaehyun steps out of the shuddering, rickety jeep that brought them from the train station to the old house. He reels for a moment, his stomach turning from the ride up the hill, all the sharp bends in the road and the potholes throwing them around in the back of the car. He steadies himself against the open door and reaches out to help his grandmother out, grinning at her pale, disgruntled face. He squints up ahead to see Taeyong stepping out gingerly from the front passenger seat. They didn’t speak a word to each other in the car.

“What are you looking at boy,” Taeyong’s father says. He startles for a moment, looks up at that tall, ageing man staring him down. “Bring those suitcases in.”

“Yes sir,” he replies, hurriedly dropping his gaze and turning to the dull leather suitcases in the back. He’s proud that he managed not to stutter.

 

 

“This was my room,” Taeyong says softly.

They’re in the house. Ancient, old, old, so old, is the first thought that popped into Jaehyun’s head the moment they walked in. Sloping roof and courtyard and screen doors and everything. They’re sitting on the dusty floor, sorting through boxes of all of Taeyong’s old things.

“We’d come here for vacation, this was where I’d stay,” he says. Jaehyun smiles. That’s the first he’s heard from Taeyong all afternoon. He’s glad to be talking to him again, now that his father has gone down to the town to meet some old acquaintances.

“Hyung, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but this house is really scary,” Jaehyun says, throwing a pointed look up at the cobwebs in the rafters.

Taeyong grins. “We haven’t been here in a while,” he says. “It used to look better than this. There was a caretaker, too, but abeoji fired him pretty recently. Guess he wasn’t doing much anyway, by the looks of it.”

“Oh,” Jaehyun says. He watches him wandering around the room, opening cupboards and drawers and picking up old books and stuffed toys, pausing by a wooden pillar and letting his fingers trail over its smooth surface. He doesn’t say a word, just watches him, wistful, a sort of warmth in the way he’s looking at everything around him, like every single thing in this room has its place in his memory.

“Look,” he says with a small smile.

“What is it?” Jaehyun says, shuffling over and squinting at the dark, polished wood. Taeyong’s name is carved into the surface, in childish writing, at the height perhaps a seven year old could reach. It’s sloppy and crooked. Jaehyun chuckles. “You did this?”

Taeyong nods. “My mother covered it up with brown shoe polish so abeoji wouldn’t see,” he says. “She just sort of sighed and then smiled and winked and I don’t know, I just remember it so clearly. She just said he doesn’t have to know, it’ll be our secret, and I remember that, even what she was wearing, this sort of red…”

He trails off.

“Go on,” Jaehyun urges, getting more than a little caught up in the way Taeyong’s eyes are lighting up. Deep brown, glimmering. The way his delicate mouth dances around a smile. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so deeply happy. Taeyong looks up at him and smiles.

“I’m rambling, sorry,” he says.

“No, it’s alright, I want to listen.”

“Abeoji will return soon, we should clean his room by then,” Taeyong reminds him. “I don’t think halmeoni can do it all by herself.”

“Okay,” Jaehyun says.

Taeyong grins and nods. “Beach tomorrow,” he says. “But I could show you around for a bit today.”

 

 

“Uncle!” Taeyong says.

The door he threw open hurriedly thuds against the wall, and Jaehyun has to place a hand on the doorknob to keep it from rattling dangerously. He peers out curiously, just in time to see Taeyong being wrapped in a bear hug, some broad man with a pockmarked face and the kindest, broadest smile Jaehyun has ever seen. The man claps Taeyong on the back and breaks the embrace.

“How are you, kid?” he says, pulling back and getting a good look at Taeyong’s face. “Goodness, look at you, you’re a man now!”

“Barely,” Taeyong chuckles. Jaehyun takes a step forward, to get a better look at Taeyong, at the happiness in his eyes. He’s never seen Taeyong’s family, nobody but his father, and Taeyong has never looked this comfortable around that man. “Abeoji’s gone to town. He won’t be back till late.”

“Who says I’m here to see that miserable old bat. I’m here for you, of course. Last time I saw you…” the man trails off. His gaze flits to where Jaehyun is standing awkwardly. His eyebrows lift, strong eyebrows, shaped like Taeyong’s. “Who’s this?”

Jaehyun is caught by surprise, embarrassingly uncoordinated when he bows.

“Uncle, this is my friend,” Taeyong says.

“From school?” he asks. “You’ve vacation now?”

“No, sir, I’m the house help’s grandson,” he replies.

“He’s my best friend,” Taeyong says, talking over him. “His name’s Jaehyun.”

“Jaehyun. That’s good, a man needs someone he can trust in this world,” he says solemnly. “Come here, son, come on closer. I’ve brought orange candy.”

Taeyong snorts. “I’m not six anymore,” he says.

“Are you saying you don’t want it, then?” he scoffs. “Fine, there’s more for me and Jaehyun.”

“I never said that,” Taeyong says, grinning, quickly nicking the tin from the man’s hands.

Jaehyun chuckles. He’s not used to seeing that twinkle in Taeyong’s eye, that mischief in his smile. He’s never seen him acting really childish, never seen him around an adult who coddles him like that, and only then he realizes that Taeyong is still only seventeen.

His uncle guffaws happily, and Jaehyun snaps out of his thoughts. “Well, mister not six anymore and mister Jaehyun, I have something else for you boys to mess around with on your vacation,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a key with a fraying knit keychain.

“What’s this?” Taeyong asks curiously, reaching for the keys dangling in front of his face.

“This is the key to the old motorcycle,” he says.

Jaehyun’s eyebrows shoot up and he lets out a sound that he can only describe as an exclamatory sputter. Taeyong chuckles, and Jaehyun has to duck his head in embarrassment.

“You’re giving this to me?” Taeyong says, amazed.

“Till you go back,” he says. “Figured if you’re anything like your mother when she was young, you’d want to ride all around town on that.”

“She used to drive a motorcycle?” Taeyong sputters.

“Damn right,” the man says. “But don’t tell anyone, I was supposed to keep that a secret.”

Taeyong grins and throws his arms around the man. “You’re the best,” he says.

Jaehyun watches him. Suddenly so youthful. Even if he takes a beating and doesn’t cry, suffers through illness alone and cares for Jaehyun and gives him clothes and takes him out to buy sweets and get his hair cut, gives him advice and soothes his pain like he’s all grown up, Taeyong hyung. Even if some nights, he lugs his father to a couch with his skinny arms and shoulders and covers him with a blanket, lives alone for months on end and still goes to school and the bank and the lawyer and the doctor and the tailor when he needs to. Even if he pretends he isn’t lonely. He’s still only seventeen.

**Present Day, Seoul**

The first time it happens, Taeyong doesn’t pay any attention to it. That’s what they told him. Don’t pay any attention to them, they don’t want your apology, they just want to see you destroyed. Just know that you’ve made your fair share of mistakes, know that the most you can do is atone, and so you should. But remember, always, always remember, fuck the antis. That’s what the sunbaes said.

So that’s what Taeyong did. The death threats and anonymous comments cussing him out, he ignores them. He apologizes, he works harder than before. Soften your image, they told him. Be cuter, be softer, make sure they believe you’ve changed. That sudden somber atmosphere in the dorms, that’ll pass too, they told him. Don’t worry about, it’s your first scandal, you’ll get used to this.

But he can’t get used to this. That one guy, tall, pale, gangly, standing there at all their performances, screaming, holding up boards with his name on it. Make the right choice, Taeyong. Make the right choice, make the right choice, over and over. He doesn’t know what he wants, it just echoes at every turn, make the right choice.

He looks out of the van window, tired. His phone lights up, and he looks down. It’s a text from Jaehyun.

_Go to sleep, hyung_

He looks up at the side mirror, and he sees Jaehyun’s face there, looking at him, worried creases in his brow.

 _I’m not sleepy though_ , he types. He hasn’t sent it yet when he gets another text.

_I saw you looking at him when we were wrapping up_

_Don’t pay any attention to him hyung_

_He’s just some psycho_

 

He smiles. The texts keep coming.

 

_I’m serious. I’ve seen him before. He held up signs that said I’m sorry Jaehyun_

_Every single rookies performance_

_Idk who tf he is_

_He’s just nuts okay, don’t think about it anymore, just sleep_

 

Taeyong frowns and looks up into the mirror again. Jaehyun is looking back at him, smiling, shrugging. He types out a message.

 

_Has he bothered you? Have you told manager hyung?_

 

He hears a soft chuckle behind him.

 

_Look here, leader hyung. I’m trying to take care of you, will you please stop turning this around?_

_Go to sleep damn it your bird friends are waiting on you_

 

He grins and tries to shoot a glare at Jaehyun in the mirror. But he’s being such a soft, precious thing, he can’t even muster up a convincing glare. He just smiles at him, revels in the gentle smile he receives in return, soft black hair, smudged eye makeup and dimples.

“Good night,” he mouths.

 

 

**1947, Mokpo**

Jaehyun’s shoes aren’t built for this, the hard leather failing to grip the jagged rock he’s hurrying over, but he doesn’t really care. He’s so happy, having met Taeyong’s uncle and felt the kindness and warmth of family, having wandered around the house that holds all of Taeyong’s best memories, watching him touch the things his mother touched. Being shown all the best hiding places and all the best trees for climbing and saying hello to the old dog that lives in the temple premises and comes by every now and then just to say hello, he’s happy.

And now, now that his uncle has gone back to work with the promise of returning tomorrow, so they’re running off to the beach for a while, before Juinnim returns.

They’ve already run through the long, long grass past the backyard of the house, taken a thin worn down trail through the shrubbery beyond the grass, buzzing with minges, that fresh green smell in the air, and now they’re here. He can hear the ocean, smell the salt, he’s so excited. Uncertain footing on sharp rock, he’s a little more careful than Taeyong is being, eyes on the ground.

“We’re here!” Taeyong announces.

Jaehyun looks up.

That familiar silhouette standing alone on a cliff edge, wind whipping his hair back, catching the fabric of his shirt. He squints up ahead at the jagged rock path against the bright sunlight, a strange feeling gripping his heart.

He takes a few steps forward, and the ocean comes into view beyond Taeyong and the rock edge. Shimmering in the afternoon sun, brilliant, but stubbornly grey, white tipped waves, breaking over the sandy beach twenty feet below. He loses his breath, it’s so beautiful. So strange. He’s staring, moving closer, closer, it calls to him quietly. Come, stay, stay here, never go back. A familiar lull, the ocean, the rocks, the sharp, rocky path, the faint lingering notes of lavender in the breeze.

“Your first beach,” Taeyong says, grinning happily.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. A leaf falls from the branches above. His eyes follow it, its gentle, fluttering path, Japanese maple, still bright green, just the tips turning to a beautiful fall colored red. How stunning this would be in late autumn, he thinks.

Crimson, beautiful, crimson.

 

 

Taeyong’s voice is soothing, Jaehyun thinks idly. Something madly calming about that familiar drawl, the gravel in his voice at the end of the day. They’ve settled down under the tree, large for a Japanese maple, twenty feet he reckoned when he craned his neck up to see the sun lighting up the leaves. Ten minutes, they decided. Ten minutes under the tree because it’s pretty. He’s reading to him, a collection of Basho’s haiku, translated and annotated. One of his mother’s books.

He closes his eyes and settles back comfortably against the tree. How strange, it’s so familiar, he’s been here before, he’s done this before.

_Autumn – even_

_Birds and clouds_

_Look old_

 

He smiles. He’s happy, regardless.

_Dew drops_

_How better wash away_

_World’s dust?_

 

He shifts a little against the knots of wood, leans against Taeyong’s side to get more comfortable. He lets his tired muscles relax. It’s such a familiar lull.

Taeyong’s voice is fading in and out of focus. A sort of hush settles around him, Taeyong’s voice quieter now, gentler, more of a whisper, more of a breath, _climb the rocks on high and dive into deep blue water…_

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he knows when he starts dreaming.

He knows it, that sense of non-belonging, that skewed reality. He knows it when his hands lift in front of him, grainy, dimly lit, he knows it when they slide through long, dark hair, slowly, carefully, when his hands gently push that curtain of hair over a bare shoulder.

A whisper. His own voice.

_Climb the rocks on high and dive into deep blue water…_

A quiet response, he can’t quite hear the words, but he knows the voice. Soothing, madly calming, he can’t hear the words but he knows them. Wings will appear before I hit the ocean…

His fingers trail over the dips and curves and scarred skin of this man’s back. The man turns, and Jaehyun stops breathing for a moment. Ethereal, those big eyes and that sharp nose, that delicate mouth whispering in that thick, thick, hush.

 _Perhaps the seagull was born this way, too?_ That delicate mouth, that, that…

 _You are the sun_ , he breathes, one hand steadying against this man’s cheek, leaning in, so close he can feel the warmth of his breath, count all his lashes, even in that darkness. The faint smell of toil and blood, burning incense, smoke-thick smothering air. He presses their lips together.

Warm and gentle. Practiced, familiar, like home. A break in the intimacy.

_Shall we pretend we could stay here forever dearest?_

_Why not? Why not?_

Mouths pressing together, clothes rustling, the cold bite of winter night, bodies pressing, pressing closer, he can’t see who, he can’t see, but he knows that scent, that voice, that feeling in his chest. Crimson, flowing crimson on a cliff, muddy grey ocean and white tipped waves, wind biting, bodies pressing closer and a name is carved into stone, _there, now you will stay here forever, all of forever, and I am right here beside you, my love…_

Jaehyun’s eyes snap open. His heart is pounding and his head is reeling. He shifts, lifts a hand to his head. He fell asleep, somehow pressed against Taeyong’s chest, with his fingers carding through his hair.

“Awake?” Taeyong chuckles, his hand stilling.

He sits up, lids still heavy with sleep, the back of his neck warm from that dream. He looks up at Taeyong, and his breath stops. Big eyes, small sharp nose, that delicate mouth.

He laughs, that ugly, happy sound. It sounds so light here, in this small southern town, it sounds light and happy.

“I didn’t want to wake you, you were out like a light,” he says. Jaehyun hums a response, still caught up in Taeyong’s face. It can’t be, he thinks. That would just be too strange.

“Nice place, right? I think when I get older I’ll come back here,” Taeyong says. Jaehyun just gapes at him. Thundering, galloping heart and his head spinning. “I just… it’s so calming. I wish I could stay here forever.”

Jaehyun lifts his hand, dumbly, hesitantly, slides it over Taeyong’s cheek, steadying. Taeyong’s eyes widen, his lips parting, confused. He stares for a moment. That’s perfectly right. His hand against that cheek and the warmth in his chest, lavender clinging to his skin and those big eyes looking at him, that was his dream.

“Uh,” he says. He drops his hand, his neck flushing hotter. He laughs, embarrassed, his heart won’t slow down, and he knows it’s because he’s so afraid of what he almost did just now. What he thought of, the fit of those lips against his. How fucking bizarre. His voice trembles. “Uh, yeah, it’s nice. It’s a nice place.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong says, looking down into his lap. Flustered, clearly thrown by that sudden intimacy. “More Basho?”

 

 

**Present Day, Seoul**

Taeyong settles back in his bed. Thing are looking up, he thinks. He’s happier now, he hasn’t seen that weirdo with the signs in a while. The number of articles about his fuckups are petering out. Performances are going smoothly.

And there’s Jaehyun.

Strong, reliable, teddy bear cuddly Jaehyun. That kid who was shorter than him a couple of years ago, that kid who cried when the trainers told him he needed to work on his dancing, that kid who followed him around like a puppy. He’s the one who knows when Taeyong’s feeling down. He’s the one who sidles up to him and demands attention and lifts his mood till it’s all roses and peaches and pretty, sweet, blushing things.

He’s the one who leaned in close to share Taeyong’s mic, on stage, bright lights, sweat, a thousand screaming fans. And he put one hand on Taeyong’s hip, grabbed Taeyong’s hand with the other to steady the mic, leaned in real close and finished his ment. Taeyong blushed then, real hard, it was all caught on camera, too.

He pretends like it was because he was embarrassed at the proximity, too introverted to be comfortable with that. But that’s not true. It’s Jaehyun. He’s comfortable enough with Jaehyun to let him sleep on his shoulder, to hook their legs together when they’re lying down, draw patterns on his thigh and run his fingers down his back to calm him during interviews.

It’s Jaehyun, teddy bear cuddly Jaehyun, who’s been leaving him breathless and flustered and feeling very much like an idiot with a crush, stuck, stuck, so stuck. He cringes at his own stupidity.

 

**1947, Mokpo**

“Hey hyung, you done with that box?” Jaehyun asks. He’s shrugged off all the events of that afternoon, that dream. _Probably ate something bad_ , his grandma says every time she has a nightmare. Damn sweet potato, he thinks.

“This one’s for selling,” Taeyong says, pointing at a cardboard box by the wall. “And this one we’re taking with us.”

“Okay, I’ll put this outside,” he says, carefully stepping over the gathered clutter of a lifetime spread over the bedroom floor. It’s late evening now, already dark out, somewhat dim, dingy, claustrophobic indoors, the mosquitoes buzzing at the windows and the moths flying at the gas lamps. This house doesn’t have electricity like the Big House.

His eyes catch something glinting dully from a corner of the room. “Shit, is that a record player?”

“Hmm?” Taeyong looks up and chuckles at the childish excitement he failed to hide. “Yes, it was mum’s.”

“Does it work?” Jaehyun asks, stepping over carefully again, his fingertips sliding over the dusty metal.

“Sure, yes, but I think it needs some cleaning,” Taeyong says distractedly, looking through old documents.

“I’ll clean it,” he says, grabbing the dusting cloth from where he’d stuffed in his belt. “Are we taking it with us?”

There’s a little break in the conversation, a faint crack, a beat of silence.

“No, I think we’re selling it,” Taeyong says. “There’s no point lugging all of this stuff back to Seoul.”

Jaehyun stops wiping and turns around. There’s something about the way he said that, it doesn’t sit right with Jaehyun.

“Are you okay with that?” he asks hesitantly. Taeyong doesn’t speak for a moment. Just sits there on the floor flipping through the disintegrating yellowing pages of the folder in his lap, unseeing, unfocused.

“It doesn’t matter. Abeoji wants to sell it.”

Jaehyun thinks he knows what that means. The finality of it. The lack of any kind of trace that a woman lived in the Big House back in Seoul sometime only years ago. Where is it? That lifetime of clutter, the relics of a life lived? Nothing but the books Taeyong keeps safe in his room. Not a grainy grey photograph, not a pair of shoes, not a gardening glove or hairbrush. Clean and sterilized, no trace of his mother left in that house.

He wonders what he would do if someone took that from him, like it was taken from Taeyong. That duffel bag with the traces of his father’s life, he wonders, how much hurt Taeyong silences. The biggest pretense of adulthood. The biggest lie, I’m fine, I know what I’m doing, nothing can hurt me. I’m fine.

“If I cleaned it, could we play some music?” he asks gently. “Before your father comes back.”

Another moment passes. “Sure,” Taeyong says, his hands still now. He puts the folder down, gets to his feet. “Sure, yeah, that would be nice.”

 

When the first notes of an old love song crackle to life, Taeyong stands still beside him, watching the vinyl spinning. Still, like the dewdrops on grass blades in early autumn, still, pensive, only the faintest tremble of life.

The first sound he hears is not Taeyong’s voice, not a word from him, but a happy, bubbling laugh, an old woman’s laugh from a room across the courtyard. And then humming, in his halmi’s old, fractured voice, and then the myriad thuds and flaps of a house being cleaned, all the while, happy, happy humming.

Taeyong chuckles.

“Halmeoni always liked this song,” he says. Smile flickering brief and bright in his eyes. “She always asked my mother to play it for her when she’d brush mum’s hair in the evenings.”

Jaehyun smiles happily. Moments crawl by. He watches Taeyong, something regal in the way he carries himself, something so grown up, but his shoulders are hunched under something heavy, his head is bowed as if bracing himself for a flood.

“How come you never talk about her?” he asks quietly. Not sure if he’s allowed to ask that.

“He doesn’t like it,” Taeyong says slowly. Words like sludge.

Jaehyun blinks. His mouth opens and words are out before he can stop them, polish them, figure out if he’s allowed to say this. “I’m not him,” he says softly. “I want to listen, if you want to talk.”

Taeyong struggles for a moment, with words or memories or something. Like rumbling thunder on the horizon. “It’s been so long… I. I was sure I had a lot to say, but I don’t even know what it all was.”

“It’s alright, say anything… What was her name?”

“Ji Soo,” Taeyong breathes. Storm clouds brewing. “My mother’s name was Ji Soo.”

“That’s a nice name,” Jaehyun says stupidly.

Taeyong smiles. The first drops of rain. “Uhm… she was pretty, really pretty.”

“Well you had to have taken after someone, and it sure wasn’t your father.”

Taeyong chuckles. The skies opening up above them. “We used to do a lot of things together, you know? We’d go to the park, and she’d make kimbap, even if halmeoni was there she’d do it herself and it used to taste really, really good.”

“Mmhm,” Jaehyun says, picking up his dusting cloth and wiping the dust off all the vinyl covers in the box. A man listening to the rain, quiet and soothing, the sound of rain on barren earth.

“She’d read to me, too… you remember that book you needed help with? When we first met? I told you we did it for class? I read it with her,” Taeyong says. “She said she always wanted to go to college… like, be a doctor or a teacher or something, but she couldn’t.”

“She sounds wonderful, hyung.”

“She was,” Taeyong says. “I miss her.”

Jaehyun stills.

“She became ill,” he says. Swollen rivers and rain. “I don’t know what it was, nobody wants to talk about it. Nobody wants to talk about her, really. But I heard… She left Seoul, at the end, she came here. Well, not here, she lived with my uncle… I think that’s why abeoji hates coming back to Mokpo.”

The song drags on, melodious, a soldier’s jacket and a lover left behind. The record scratching, catching, as if the story was too sad to tell. He still watches Taeyong, his regality, threatening to crumble.

“You okay?” he asks, his hand reaching out somehow, he doesn’t remember giving it permission, reaching out the brush his hair off his forehead, fingertips tracing the shell of his ear before settling, comforting, gentle on the back of his neck.

“I don’t think I’ve spoken about her since she died,” Taeyong breathes. He stands there stiffly for a moment, staring at the spinning, spinning record.

An arm around the shoulders, fingers ruffling hair, an affectionate slap across the back. That’s what they’re used to. This, Jaehyun’s hands on his skin like this, this is new. Oddly intimate, but Jaehyun thinks he needs it. Unaccustomed vulnerability, needs unaccustomed tenderness.

“Thank you,” Taeyong whispers after a long moment. Jaehyun doesn’t say anything.

The sound of a car pulling up outside wrenches them from their moment. Jaehyun leans over and lifts the needle off the record so the music stops. Taeyong lifts the black vinyl delicately, quietly, methodically putting it away in its jacket, effectively ending that twilight magic, but he stays close to Jaehyun for another moment. Stares at his feet as if contemplating something. And then he hugs him. Arms wrapping around Jaehyun’s waist, head resting on his shoulder, young and vulnerable, and Jaehyun holds him close.

The only other time they wrapped against each other like this, was that night, walking back from the protests, heart still thudding and his stomach still turning at the thought of his best friend getting hurt, at the thought of the only remaining good thing in his life getting hurt, and he felt so young and unprepared and vulnerable, and he hugged him. As if to make sure he was still there, still unharmed, and Taeyong held him close. Pressed a gentle, comforting kiss to his forehead. He hasn’t forgotten it to this day. That unaccustomed tenderness that shook the very foundations of their relationship and left them standing singular and strong in all the wasteland of their lives.

So he holds him close, young and vulnerable, for once, he’s vulnerable, and he treats him tenderly, presses his lips to the top of his head and holds him. He lets go only when he hears the front door opening. Taeyong turns away and picks up the leftover files on the table.

 

Jaehyun jolts awake, his face hot, he doesn’t know what time it is, only that it’s ungodly dark out. He shifts, shoulder blades tender where they’re digging into the floor, only a thin sheet under him. It’s getting cold, too damn cold, he thinks, deliberate, slow, dragging the thought out, going over it again and again. Cold, uncomfortable, god damn sheet god damn floor god damn dust tickling his nose, he’s alone here. Halmi’s there, across the damn room, there she is, snoring, god bless.

There isn’t a man here with him. Not here in his arms, warm, too fucking real, his eyes and his mouth, no. Not the soft skin of his neck, not the clean cuts of his jaw and cheekbones, no that was a dream.

 

Taeyong’s father doesn’t go anywhere all day the next day. He stays, helping with the sorting, which means Jaehyun stays far away, outside, with his broom and his dusting cloth, cleaning out the shed. He sneezes, five sets of about seventeen each, but Taeyong’s father is a frightening man, so he blows his nose till he sounds like a dying animal, keeps his mouth shut and his hands dusting.

He wishes the old fucker would just leave again, go talk to his old fucker friends in town, so he could spend the day with Taeyong again. Maybe go back to that tree, or maybe this time they’d have enough time to go to the beach, to the actual sand and water. Taeyong’s right, he thinks. There’s something here, something in the air and the water, something in the earth and the sky that’s calming, familiar.

“Boy!”

He sighs. His grandmother’s voice, he thinks, has a singular talent. Ruining his fucking day.

“Boy come here!”

“Coming, halmi,” he calls back.

 

Turns out she needs his help drying fish so she can take them back to Seoul _these are the best, really, you’ll never eat fish like this_. And when she says drying, she means lay them out on a sheet in the backyard, but stick around to keep an eye on it so the birds don’t get to them. He sighs, shifting his grip on the basket of fish, readjusting the sheet under his arm.

He’s grumbling quietly to himself when he hears it. Those hushed voices, barely concealed anger. He slows down. It’s coming from the back yard. He’s not sure if he should go there, so he lingers by the back door for a moment, debating.

“Don’t think I didn’t fucking see it!”

He shrinks back, it’s almost a snarl. Taeyong’s uncle’s voice. Fuck, he thinks. He shouldn’t be here.

“Don’t think I didn’t fucking see it. Don’t, I saw it, you beat her black and blue, my sister, my baby sister, you did that to her. And now you’re doing it to him, and I won’t fucking take it this time…”

He freezes. He’s so shocked by that, he can’t move.

“I never,” a voice says. Taeyong’s father, Juinnim’s voice. “I never laid a finger on her before all of this started. All her fucking dreams and her crying, she was an embarrassment to me, wasn’t… wasn’t right in the head. She humiliated me…”

Jaehyun takes a step back. He really shouldn’t be listening to this, but he’s curious, about Taeyong’s mother, about what happened to her.

“She told me. She told me about her dreams. She said she’d dream Taeyong was dead…” Jaehyun’s throat tightens. “…that she’d killed him, or not, maybe, just that he was dead in her arms and it frightened her to death. And all you did about it was beat her within an inch of her life, tear her from her son… you abandoned her. You drove her mad. It was you, you fucking pig, you drove her to do what she did, and I won’t see you doing it to that boy…”

Jaehyun’s heart pounds. What she did, what did she do?

“Jaehyun?”

He whips around. It’s Taeyong, on the far side of the hallway, heading towards him with a smile and crate full of something.

“Hyung,” he whispers. He didn’t hear, did he? He didn’t, no he just came in, he still doesn’t know that they’re…

“What are you doing there?” Taeyong chuckles.

“He’s my son!” a voice bellows from outside.

“I saw the bruises.”

He stares dumbly at Taeyong, at the smile slipping off his face, a strange blankness taking its place, and he shakes his head. Oh god. Oh god, no, Taeyong shouldn’t hear this, any of this. He’s been so happy, he can’t.

“Hyung, just…”

“It’s okay,” Taeyong says.

“I saw them, you give him to me.”

“It’s fine,” Taeyong says again, piling the crate on top of another in the hallway. “What’s with the fish?”

“Nothing, halmi just… halmi wanted me to…”

He looks down at the basket. Looks back up.

“He’s all I have,” Taeyong’s father says, quieter.

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t deserve him.”

“Let’s leave?” Jaehyun breathes. Taeyong doesn’t move, so he drops the basket and sheets onto a chair, and he takes a stride forward, his hand slipping into Taeyong’s, pulling him in the opposite direction. “Come on, let’s go somewhere.”

“Jaehyun, you’ll get in trouble.”

“I don’t care, let’s go,” he says, pulling again, till he takes a hesitant step forward, then another and another, towards the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his grandmother’s wrinkled old hands picking up the basket. He wonders if she heard, too. He catches her eye for the briefest of moments, and that grim resignation, the mouthed words, go on, that gives it away. She heard. She knows.

 

**Present Day, Vietnam**

“Hey hyung,” Jaehyun says, squirming at little to make himself comfortable on the soft hotel bed. “You think we’ll have time to go around tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, Jae,” Taeyong says, voice muffled and hollow, from inside the bathroom.

“I hope we do,” Jaehyun mumbles. Their schedule is chock full tomorrow, but Jaehyun still wants to see Vietnam. He still wants to eat street food. From the streets. Not the polished, bland, tourist friendly versions they would find in the hotels and restaurants they’d be going to.

The bathroom door opens.

“I don’t think we could, even if we had the time,” Taeyong says, stepping into the room. A puff of steam follows him. Jaehyun swears his eyes don’t linger on Taeyong’s pretty, pink tinged skin, the clean, clean cuts of his jaw and collarbones, just visible beneath the loose grey t shirt he’s wearing. Ratty old shorts flap around his knees and he smiles at how small Taeyong really is, how attractive he is, just toweling his hair dry.

“Why not?” he asks.

“We’d probably be too tired,” Taeyong says, laying his towel over the back of a chair.

“Aw, hyung come on,” Jaehyun grumbles. “You’re never up for any fun.”

**1947, Mokpo**

“Hyung! Oh shit, we’re going to fucking die!”

Taeyong chuckles, his hair whipping in the wind, tickling his nose, tears gathering in his eyes against the cold. “Calm down, uncle taught me how to do this,” he says.

“You said you already… oh shit, you said the boys at school taught you!” Jaehyun yells into the wind. They’re hurtling down the road from the house to the town on that rickety old motorcycle, sharp turns and a quiet, chilling mist settling heavily in the evening air, the light turning golden, the shadows growing longer.

“I said that?” Taeyong asks, grinning. “I must have been mistaken. I just learnt how to do this. Just today, while you were out in the shed.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Jaehyun says, a clear note of panic in his voice.

“Calm down, Jae, we’re going to be fine,” Taeyong says, smiling, some effervescent energy bubbling, brimming, bringing his smile into happy laughter.

He knows what he heard. The idea that someone knows, someone outside of Jaehyun and halmeoni, apart from the gossiped whispers of the gardener, the chauffer, the maids. Someone he loves and respects knows what a fucking sham his relationship is with his father. What a crumbling sham. He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s been so happy here, with Jaehyun, and he won’t ruin it.

Jaehyun wraps his arms tight around Taeyong, chest pressed to his back, and he smiles.

“If I die here…” he begins.

Taeyong chuckles. “I won’t let you die,” he says. A flush climbs his neck the moment the words leave his mouth, but he doesn’t care. He wanted to say them. He’s happy.

“If I do, I’m taking you with me,” Jaehyun grumbles, arms tightening around him.

Taeyong grins, speeds up a little. He doesn’t know why he’s acting like this. He just, just, just feels invincible today. In this place, with Jaehyun, he feels invincible. So in love, and so invincible.

 

 

They’re lying side by side along the beach, and even with the rumbling sound of the ocean, even with the calls of seagulls and the distant laughter of children. Even then, somehow, it’s quiet. Evening blooms in colors of yellow and blue all around them, the crisp scent of salt in the air.

Jaehyun finds he has nothing on his mind. Nothing at all, stomach full of fried fish from the noisy shops at the wharf, back aching from messy driving over messy roads, and he smiles at all the memories he’s made in the span of a few days. Of all the things they’ve done together, all the days they’ve spent together, he thinks these were the best. Only and only because for the first time in his life, he saw Taeyong being young and carefree, driving that deathtrap motorcycle, being so overwhelmed with emotion, he needed to be held, being so happy he couldn’t stop smiling, not ill, not bruised and miserable, not composed and all grown up.

He looks over at him, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. How painfully handsome, he thinks. All big eyes and small mouth and a tiny smile dancing somewhere behind them. How lucky, that he didn’t hear half the things the old man said, how beautiful, that he could make Taeyong laugh today.

He can’t shake this feeling, that despite everything, somehow, nothing bad could happen here. They could just be good to each other and no one would stop them. Some feeling, that something big would happen if they let it, something as sure and unfathomable and beautiful as the ocean.

“You want to swim?” Jaehyun asks all of a sudden.

Taeyong looks like he’s just woken from a dream. He smiles. “I’m not very good,” Taeyong admits.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you die,” he says, a happy twinkle in his eye. “Come on!”

 

 

Taeyong doesn’t have time to protest when Jaehyun’s hand curls around his wrist and he starts running. He has no choice but to run after. Fighting against the pull of the sand under their feet, feeling the way it gives under their weight, stumbling across the beach to the water, and that’s when Jaehyun lets go.

Taeyong’s heart stops for a moment. His eyes follow the path his hands take, up to his collar, a momentary fumble with the highest button, then down, impatient, cleaving a path in the pale blue fabric for smooth skin to peek through. Taeyong knows the way his stomach drops, the way something heavy settles somewhere low. His neck warms. He drops his gaze.

“Hyung, what are you doing?” Jaehyun says, long, neat fingers unbuckling his belt.

Taeyong’s breath hitches.

“Taeyong hyung? Take your clothes off,” he says, stepping out of his trousers.

Taeyong smiles, but he knows the nervousness behind it. “Jaehyun…”

He doesn’t get another word out, because Jaehyun just wraps an arm around his waist and barrels into the water, laughing happily. “You’re taking too long!” he says. The cold, salty water surges around them, gentle lapping waves climbing thigh high, waist high, he’s being dragged by the ocean but he’s anchored to Jaehyun. He gasps out a laugh, all the muscles in his chest tightening from the cold.

“Fuck,” he says, shivering, laughing, trying not to beat the shit out of Jaehyun, because that would mean letting go of him, and he’s not sure enough of his footing to let go just yet. “Fuckfuckfuck that’s cold, Jaehyun you little brat shit!”

“Ooh, scary,” Jaehyun teases.

Taeyong turns to him, squirms around in his hold, chest deep in water, waiting for a wave to send them tumbling under, he just wants to smack him, that grin he knows Jaehyun has on his face.

He looks up. It’s not the cold that knocks the air out of his chest and bleeds a burning flush into his skin. It’s not fear that sets his heart racing, his hands trembling. It’s those eyes. It’s something inevitable, like fate, like falling, it’s coming his way, something big, if he lets it happen.

“We’re going to drown,” he stammers out.

“Told you, I won’t let you die,” Jaehyun says again, resolute, teasing just a little, reminding him of what he said on that motorcycle. It’s that gaze, beautiful ocean chaos in his eyes and this place that cradles him like he was born to live here, that cradles them in soft waves and whispers of love and fate.

Somehow, sound slips away. Little by little, till there’s no rumbling ocean, no seagulls, no rustling leaves. Nothing but the sound of their breathing. In and out, steady, anxious. Nothing but Jaehyun’s persistent gaze and the warmth of his body.

There it is again, that feeling of something big, something like fate, like falling.

Taeyong swallows and leans closer into Jaehyun’s space. The younger doesn’t push him away, doesn’t step back, stays open, willing to hug the sad right out of his hyung, the way he’s been these past couple of days, just so sweet, so easy to love, and Taeyong can’t resist.

He moves closer, the wet cloth of his shirt sliding rough against Jaehyun’s bare, glistening skin, he settles against Jaehyun like a falling leaf touching the ground. He feels Jaehyun’s arm sliding tight around his waist. Soundless. The rise and fall of his chest. In and out, steady and nervous, stumbling a little under the weight of the waves.

Taeyong’s arms wind around Jaehyun’s shoulders of their own accord, palms against the wet skin of his back, the slide smooth and soundless. He doesn’t know how long he holds Jaehyun’s gaze, his breath coming harsh and unsteady. His eyes flutter shut, his lips touch skin, lips against his cheek and he tastes like ocean salt. Intoxicated, slipping into twilight magic, he trails his lips across his skin till he’s feeling something else, soft and breathing. Trembling lips to trembling lips, not a kiss, it can’t be a kiss, just lips pressing close. He stays there, helpless, head spinning, eyes closed tight, and he’s barely touching anything, but it’s enough to shatter his silence.

His eyes open, and his hands fall away from Jaehyun and he stumbles back, feeling Jaehyun’s grip slipping from his waist, shocked, overwhelmed because the sounds of the ocean and the squawking of seagulls and the rustling of leaves are filling his senses all at once and his silence is shattered, and he’s fallen, he’s fallen already and his secrets are bared.

He takes another step back, one hesitant look at Jaehyun’s parted lips and his red ears and the blankness in his face.

“I don’t…” Taeyong trails off. He doesn’t know what to say. Jaehyun is just standing there, unmoving, blank, blank, and Taeyong is turning away from him, his heart pounding, his eyes stinging, what did he just let happen?

He struggles out of the water, against the pull of the ocean, sure and unfathomable and beautiful.

Maybe he hears a muffled _Wait, Taeyong hyung_ ringing out behind him, but the ocean and the seagulls and the wind are deafening in his ears.

 

Jaehyun struggles to pull his trousers back on, to buckle his belt and do up his buttons and run after Taeyong. He doesn’t know what just happened but hell, it felt right. Those pretty lips brushing the corner of his mouth. They were just so soft under his own, surpassing every forgotten dream that tried to teach him how Taeyong’s lips might fit with his, every fleeting thought dismissed with a shrug and a laugh.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, giving up on the last two buttons, gathering up his shoes in his arms and just running.

Past the rocks and the shrubbery. The stone beneath his feet is sharp, it cuts, but he still runs forward.

He’s at the top of the hillock, and Taeyong is nowhere to be seen. He ploughs forward, through the long grass, over the wooden fence and through the backyard and up to the backdoor of the house. He pushes it open and stumbles into the kitchen and has to grab the edge of the kitchen table to keep himself from running into his grandmother and a bowl of peeled potatoes.

“Heavens, Jaehyun, be careful,” she chides distractedly, setting the bowl down carefully on the counter.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Is Taeyong hyung back?”

“Well, yes, he just got back. Weren’t you two together?” she asks, finally looking up at him, and her eyes widen. “Look at you, you’re a mess!”

“I… sorry, I know, can I just…” he makes to move past her but she grabs him by the ear and pulls him back.

“You don’t really think I’m letting you walk into the house like that!” she exclaims. “You’re getting the floor all dirty…”

“Ow, halmi, please, I’ll explain later.”

“Are those your shoes?”

“I didn’t have time to…”

“Goodness, you look like a beggar,” she mutters. “Change into something decent before Juinnim sees you.”

“I’ll do it in a bit, I swear…”

“You will do it now.”

“Halmeoni!” he says. “I’ll do it in a bit. I’ll mop the floor, too. In a bit. Just, please let me go see hyung first.”

She eyes him for a moment. “He’s still upset,” she says. “You couldn’t take his mind off it?”

He swallows. “I… yeah,” he says.

“Alright, go.”

 

Jaehyun raises his hand and knocks on Taeyong’s bedroom door. Hesitantly, with one trembling hand, trying to let air into his lungs through a tight throat. He takes a few calming breaths.

“Hyung, it’s me,” he says. “Can I come in?”

There’s no sound. He waits for some kind of response, but there’s nothing but quiet shuffling behind the door. He’s nervous beyond belief. He doesn’t know what to expect. What does he even want to say to Taeyong?

“Let me in,” he breathes, resting his forehead against the door.

More shuffling, clothes rustling, maybe a sniffle, the doorknob turns and Jaehyun straightens up, his whole body tensing. The door opens. Taeyong is looking at him, his nose and eyes and ears a little red. He smiles, thin and watery.

“I’m sorry,” he says lightly, all grown up again. “I don’t know what that was.”

“Let me in,” he says again. Taeyong stares at him for a moment, as if willing him to just take what he said and leave. Jaehyun doesn’t back down. Taeyong sighs, takes a step back and the younger matches it with a step forward. Another step back – step forward – till Taeyong’s hand is falling away from the doorknob and Jaehyun’s hand is claiming the space, and they’re standing in Taeyong’s room and Jaehyun is closing the door behind them.

He stands there stupidly for a moment, the gas light flickering and hissing, unsure of what to say. He’s crazy nervous, his palms a little sweaty, and he’s uncomfortably aware of the sand drying on his clothes and legs and falling all over the floor. What is he really doing here?

He takes one sandy step forward and rests a palm on Taeyong’s hip, his thumb stroking, gets so close their bodies touch. Taeyong stays stock still, fixing him with that gaze, and he feels like an insect but he fights it, leans in against all the anxious pounding in his ears and chest and the tips of his fingers and all the worried screaming in his head.

“Are you mocking me?” Taeyong breathes, betrayed, shocked.

He shakes his head simply, staring dumbly at Taeyong’s face, beautiful, that’s what he calls him in moments he chooses to forget about.

He lets his arms slide around Taeyong’s waist and pull him close, his embrace tightening, palms sliding over Taeyong’s back till Taeyong’s breath is hot and ragged against his neck. It feels like something off a movie poster, Taeyong’s slender body in his arms, bodies pressed together in a warm embrace, all swooping violins and the sound of singing angels, except it isn’t. It’s almost comical how far they are from it.

Two teenagers, sandy and wet, bare feet on pretty tile, hearts hammering, minds racing, forgetting to breathe because they’re just two dumb _boys_ who haven’t a clue what they’re doing and what any of it means.

A few seconds slip by in shocked silence. Taeyong pulls back a little, his hands on Jaehyun’s chest, his eyes are wide and wet, looking straight at him.

Jaehyun speaks, his voice small, his gaze unwavering. “You don’t have to be embarrassed or anything. We’re alright,” Jaehyun fumbles. “Don’t worry.”

Taeyong just stares blankly, just breathing unsteadily.

 “It’s okay,” he says. He wants to say it, you felt something, I felt something, there was something there, right? Something, like falling. But Taeyong looks terrified, and it reminds him, cold and unpleasant, that it shouldn’t have felt so right. He opens his mouth. “It was just… like practice, right?”

Taeyong’s shoulders rise and fall with the harsh breaths he takes. He nods, hesitant. Lies, lies, he knows there was something there that shouldn’t have been, but it was there in the way he looked at him, he knows it, _he’s a fucking nancy_.

“You don’t think I’m strange?” Taeyong whispers.

“I thought you were strange the minute I saw you.”

“Jaehyun...”

“That was a joke, you’re allowed to laugh.”

Taeyong lets a small, unconvincing laugh slip. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s alright,” Jaehyun replies, his hand tightening into a fist in the fabric of Taeyong’s shirt.

“Forget it ever happened? Please?”

“If… that’s what you want,” he says. That dream, that dream, it was perfectly right and it shouldn’t have been. “It’s just that… I know, it doesn’t make sense, but I didn’t mind. I don’t mind if you. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Taeyong laughs softly, hesitantly, nervously, as if meant for him to notice all the little details like the color in his cheeks and the little lines around his eyes, that endearing way he raises his eyebrows, his high cheekbones and thick black lashes before being blinded by that small uncertain smile, and he’s baffled by the way his heart aches.

“Jung Jaehyun! If you’re finished with your urgent business, come here and mop this mess up right now!”

“…damn this woman.”

 

 

In the train on the way back, they sit together nervously. On the floor by the open door in the third class car, watching golden wheat fields and little towns slip by. Jaehyun thinks Taeyong looks exquisite in the soft evening light, thinks he never wants to forget what happened on that beach, but for both their sakes, he throws an arm around his shoulders and he acts like the loudmouth idiot friend Taeyong needs. He makes him laugh. He makes him forget the tenderness they shared. For both their sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and leaving kudos guys. It makes my day so much better reading what you guys think about the story, especially if you're enjoying it <3  
> But. Guys. Be warned. It's pretty much all downhill after this. (I'm sorry)


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I'm back. I'm really sorry if this chapter is a little messy and very very dialogue heavy, but I probably won't be able to update for a while after this because fucking exams, so I thought I should put at least this much up. Sorry again and thank you for reading! <3 <3

**102 nd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Taeyong sits silently at his desk, trying to finish his reading. It has been an hour, and he has been unable to move past the first three lines of the text. His mind stops at every character, punctuates the words with Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun. He cannot seem to stop himself.

The door slides open, the familiar catch at the roughened wood. He does not look up. Every character, Jaehyun, Jaehyun.

“Your highness,” Choi Jin says. “You have a letter.”

“Leave it and go,” he says.

“Your highness,” Choi Jin says again, holding out a silk envelope, the light blue of Seonggyungwan.

His heart stops. Jaehyun.

He reaches out before he can stop himself, his fingers aching to touch it, and he takes it from Choi Jin’s hand.

“Shall I prepare the paper and ink?” he asks.

He looks at the envelope he has laid out over his texts, his fingers trailing softly over the black ink strokes, the careful hand.

“Yes,” he breathes.

He only opens the letter after Choi Jin has bowed and left.

_Your highness,_

His heart clenches.

_I wish to ask why you have not written in so long, but I am afraid I cannot ask that of a man with so many burdens. I can only tell you that every day for the past three weeks my heart has ached for you, to see you, to hear your voice, to make do with a few stray words in a careless letter. I can only say that silence has never been so lonely._

_I wish to show you something, what we spoke of that night, you must see it for yourself, and you must hear what I have thought of it. What I have learned of it. There is no one but you who will listen, and listen you must._

_Yours,_

_Jaehyun._

Taeyong lets his fingers trace the words. He is sorry for his silence. He is sorry for Jaehyun’s heartache. But he is unprepared, to see that face and say they cannot meet again as lovers, to tell him he is to marry his sister. He is too raw, too angry with himself and his cursed blood, too hurt to be able to comfort Jaehyun. But he cannot say that. And he cannot turn him down when he asks so sincerely.

So when Choi Jin returns with the things he needs, he writes back.

_Jaehyun,_

_I am sorry I could not write._

_I will see you._

_Yours,_

_Taeyong._

 

 

They stand beneath the large dogwoods, side by side, surveying their surroundings. Jaehyun looks at Taeyong, his black horsehair hat casting a translucent shadow over his eyes, his nose, his cheekbones, but the shock and outrage of his countenance is not lost on Jaehyun. Not when he knows that face so well.

He cannot shake this feeling, that something has changed between them. Some distance, some strangeness. Despite not having seen each other in close to a month, he remains cold, somewhat detached, distracted. Perhaps it is only that he has not seen him in so long.

“How awful,” Taeyong says. That familiar face twisting, perturbed.

“This is not where it ends,” Jaehyun says. “It is everywhere, spreading like a sickness in our kingdom, hyungnim. The slaves are in a state of abject misery, orphan children roam the streets, the Seon Chim women live in terror of passing yangban…”

“What can we do?” Taeyong asks. “How can we change this?”

“That is precisely what I wished to speak with you about,” he says, triumphant. “I had a speech prepared, to rouse you to action, but how irritating, hyungnim, you have circumvented the whole ordeal.”

Taeyong looks taken aback for a moment, and then a small smile lights up his face, a soft chuckle slipping from his lips.

“Well, alright, I suppose I could listen to your speech and then be inspired to act upon this,” he says.

“I do not need your sympathy,” Jaehyun says sullenly, and Taeyong laughs a little truer, a little brighter, and Jaehyun smiles. Perhaps he imagined the distance, he thinks. Perhaps Taeyong only carries burdens he does not know of, and he is happy he could lighten the weight.

 

**103 rd year of Joseon, Hanyang.**

Taeyong stands behind the rough wooden counter in the shade of the dogwood, plain, fine silk robes fluttering violet in the light breeze. It is sunny, yet cursedly cold, and he watches with pride, with some sense of accomplishment, as those scrawny children gather around, taking bowls of rice, carrot stew and boiled eggs from Jaehyun’s hands. Simple meals, nothing like either of them are used to eating, but it is sustenance, more than they have received before.

Jaehyun, shining brighter than the sun, kind and gentle, smiling at every young child coming to him, palms outstretched, on the tips of their toes to peer curiously above the counter, or sullen and thin, still wary, old enough to know not to trust. Despite the fatigue, he smiles. A meal each and an hour of teaching the children simple skills, numbers, letters, finding places that would take the older ones in and teach them carpentry or cooking or anything that could give them a chance to rise from their circumstances. Jaehyun, the boy that made this happen with his own will and perseverance.

 _No, hyungnim, we made this happen, together, we did this,_ he would say, Taeyong is sure of it, but the truth remains that this never would have happened if Jaehyun had not brought him here to show him this suffering.

Taeyong smiles.

A few weeks ago, Taeyong stood under this very dogwood, shaken, appalled, and they asked each other what could be done for these children. They met and spoke and wrote each other till they found their solution, spoke to innumerable inn owners and shop owners, craftsmen, vendors. Only to be met with rejection, over and over, a single foolish student from out of town and his nameless friend. Taeyong could not use his name, he would not use his royal blood to weigh upon them until they listened.

They faced rejection, over and over, frustrated, disillusioned, until they spoke to Taeyong’s mother, and she pointed them to people with money or heart or both. It gave them a chance to be heard in the noise of Hanyang. First, the head administrator of Seonggyungwan, then the wandering Seonbi his Master swore by, so on, till they found the advice and resources they needed.

And that is when it began. The first week, waking an hour earlier than the crack of dawn to finish his lessons and all his reading. Jaehyun, taking permission from the head administrator to miss the afternoon lessons. Standing there under the shade of the large dogwoods, waiting, waiting, while the children remained far out of reach, unwilling to trust two yangban men and their servants. And then they began to come closer, day by day, testing them, their intentions.

And now here they are, Kyungsik, the scrawniest of the lot, the naughtiest of the lot, sitting up on top of the counter, imitating the way Jaehyun sounds when he teaches them.

 _And if you turn the line like this,_ he says, _behold, that is a three._

He chuckles, his hands pausing in their efforts, putting the bowls of food together, handing them over to Jaehyun.

“Hyungnim, why do you encourage him?” Jaehyun grumbles.

Taeyong shrugs and shakes his head. “He reminds me of you, when you were his age,” he says. “The way you would imitate your father.”

When things were simpler.

“You sound like an old man,” Jaehyun says, smiling nonetheless. “And do not tell them that, please, I am trying to teach them to respect elders.”

“You are no elder, you are a boy yourself,” Taeyong points out, ducking quickly, chuckling, when Jaehyun throws a dirty rag at him. Pleasant, light, and he wishes to keep it so for as long as he can.

“Hey mister,” Kyungsik pipes up.

A taller child, Taeyong thinks his name is Minhyung, promptly smacks him over the head. “You mean my lord,” he hisses. Kyungsik scowls at him.

“No fighting, you two,” Taeyong says. He has lost track of how many times he has said that in the past few weeks.

Kyungsik turns back to him. “Well, _my lord_ , are you the prince?” he asks. “My friend says he saw the prince once and you look like him.”

Taeyong freezes, and he sees Jaehyun stiffen beside him, clearing his throat as if preparing to say something. He had promised his mother he would be safe, that no one would know him, not in those parts of the city. He was not supposed to be there as a prince, parading around the streets of Hanyang unprotected. Only as Jaehyun’s unnamed friend in light cotton robes, no semblance of the embroidered silk of the palace.

Taeyong smiles at Kyungsik. Ruffles the messy hair slipping out of his bun.

“The prince? No, no, I am handsomer than he is,” he says. He does not miss Jaehyun’s scoff, the way he turns away, his shoulders relaxing. He leans down. “Shall I tell you some stories of what a fool Jaehyun hyungnim was when he was a child?” he whispers.

“Hyungnim!” Jaehyun protests.

Light, happy, only because he has not told Jaehyun the truth.

 

 

It is evening when they retire. The servants packing up the large vessels, blackened iron and copper, to return them to the families that had sent them. The clanging, the mild confusion, the children and their laughter receding, now familiar, as Jaehyun walks beside him to his horse.

“Can you stay a while longer?” Taeyong asks quietly.

“As if I could turn you down,” Jaehyun chuckles. “The woods again?”

Taeyong nods. Today, he will tell him, he decides. Today will not be another failed attempt at telling him the truth.

“Is everything alright, hyungnim?” Jaehyun asks, walking beside him in that settling gloaming, in that odd silence of evening, insects buzzing and night coming to life, their footfalls and the clacking of hooves echoing in that familiar path to the woods.

“Of course,” Taeyong replies. He sees Jaehyun struggling to say something.

“You have been asking to stay, later and later every day, I was only curious why.”

Taeyong wants to say it. He wants to tell him right there, I want to spend all my time with you, because I do not know how much longer we have.

“I find that I miss you,” Taeyong says instead. “When you are not by my side, I find only sorrow.”

Jaehyun stops. They are already amidst the trees, not yet at their own haven, that grassy clearing they had stumbled upon.

“Why?” he says.

Taeyong shrugs. “I do not know,” he says. That is a lie. “The only peace of mind I have is here, with you and those children.”

Jaehyun glances at his feet, again, struggling to say something. “Your mother has written to me,” Jaehyun says. “She has asked me to help her, for she sees you withering and she cannot find a reason or a cure, and she is afraid for you.”

“How misguided of her,” Taeyong says, resigned.

“Hyungnim, please, share your burdens with me as I have shared mine with you. I will help you as you have helped me.”

“I was only reflective, merely thinking,” he says softly. The truth on the tip of his tongue. “Are we the only men so accursed?”

“Accursed?”

That we fall in love in whispers, in vain.

“That we could never look upon a woman as someone to love and hold. Are we alone in this? How cruel, is it not cruel?”

“Hyungnim,” Jaehyun breathes. “Has that been troubling you for so long? I have watched you struggling all these days, no, no, we are neither alone nor accursed, hyungnim, what are you saying? We are together, we find peace and love in each other. We are not alone. There are others, too, Dongjun, the lord of Taejon, so many others, hiding.”

“Hiding,” Taeyong repeats.

Shall we hide, then? Shall we run away and hide?

“Not… well, there was Gongmin of Goryeo, the whole kingdom knew and loved him all the same,” he says. “Men have come before us, men like us, they have lived well and loved men, bedded men, we… perhaps we must hide for now, but perhaps there will come a day when…”

He stops. Perhaps his hopes seem too foolish to say out loud.

“You will never be alone, not while I am by your side. Whether all of Joseon knows, or not a single soul knows, it does not make a difference to me, whether they approve or not, it does not make a difference to me. I will love you all the same until the day you ask me not to. I will be with you till you tire of me. I will love you as men and women love, as far as you would allow, I would gladly…”

Taeyong smiles. Perhaps they could remain happy for another night, another day.

“You could kiss me,” he says. “I have not kissed you since last night.”

Jaehyun chuckles. “I would gladly,” he whispers.

Pressed against Jaehyun, wrapped in his arms, safe in his embrace, the truth remains buried.

_We cannot be together._

 

 

“The poets have written great praise for our king,” he says. “Have you read this? A page on the fineness of his brow, how eloquent.”

Taeyong smiles, strained. He only sits here because his mother thought it would be good for him to see his father again. He does not know the appropriate response. He watches carefully, the former king, his grey hair, his eyes scanning the page held before him.

“Another on his high intellect. Artful,” he remarks again. “His name sits well on the poet’s tongue.”

“I have not had the opportunity to read it, your highness,” Taeyong says apologetically.

“Why, you must,” he says. “There are valuable lessons here.”

“I beg your forgiveness, but I fail to see what I may gain from this.”

“Insight,” he says. “This poetic adulation, it is the truest mark of a tyrant.”

“I do not understand, your highness.”

“The monarchy stands on the shoulders of thinkers, young prince,” he says. “Where thinking is clear and fearless, the poets sing of the people’s pain and the scholars find solutions, the nation stands. Where thinking is clouded by fear, the poets sing of the king’s brow, the seonbi cower in their libraries, the nation stagnates and crumbles. Remember, the mark of a just and balanced monarch, is poetic and scholarly freedom.”

“I had not thought of that,” Taeyong muses.

“You must,” his father says. He clears his throat, rests weakly against his cushions. “You must think, of this and other things, you must keep in mind that you are of my blood, my heart and mind, and for that you must be fearless. You must sing of the people’s pain when the poets will not, you must rouse the cowering scholars, rally them to care for the nation when the king does not. You must.”

“Yes, your highness, I would be honored,” he says meekly, confused at the very least by what he is suggesting.

“I trust that you will,” he says again. “You have already begun, have you not?”

“I do not understand…”

“Your name sits well in your peoples’ hearts. I have heard of the whispers, the children, the elders, the weak choose to keep your name in their hearts.”

“Then I am grateful,” Taeyong says, baffled by the implications of his father’s ramblings.

 

 

“I have had the vilest day,” Jaehyun reports. He is walking beside Taeyong, again to the woods, to spend an hour or so intertwined, bodies and souls wrapped together in the hush and solitude of their wooded kingdom. Like every evening for the past few weeks.

“Then do what I do,” Taeyong says, tying his horse to a tree at the edge of their clearing.

“What is that?” Jaehyun asks, following Taeyong to the far side, to their spot by the night queen.

“I kiss you and forget,” he says, laughing when Jaehyun wraps an arm around him and pulls him close. He has barely linked him arms around Jaehyun’s neck when he leans in and presses their lips together. His heart still pounds, after all these days holding him, he still wonders if he will ever be used to feeling that body under his palms. Chaste, soft, like all their kisses, gentle, no longer hesitant.

“Tell me about your day,” Taeyong says softly.

“I have forgotten,” Jaehyun replies, eyes still closed, mouth still pressing against Taeyong’s. He feels the smile pressed against his lips, and he smiles, too. He breaks the kiss.

“What would you have me do today?” he asks.

Taeyong shrugs. “Anything you want,” he whispers. There is something buried in that, some abandon that clings to his words and makes them mean more than they should.

Jaehyun smiles, finds the depth of the ocean, glimmering moonlight and stardust, in those eyes. It knocks all the air out of Jaehyun’s chest. He tightens his grip on his arm, Dongjun’s whispers in his ear.

“If I wished to touch you,” he breathes, delirious. “Would you let me?”

“Touch me?” Taeyong whispers back, leaning up for the faintest brush of lips to his skin. Still so innocent, still untouched by the places in the world that would teach him about pleasure, inebriation, intoxication, depravity.

“Only if you would let me.”

“I would let you take my life, you fool, why do you still ask?”

Jaehyun cannot help it when he kisses Taeyong so hard they stumble backwards, till Taeyong is pressed between him and the smooth wood of the towering night queen. He cannot help it when his hands tremble, tangle, lost in the folds of Taeyong’s jeogori. He pulls at the belts.

He wants to be gentle, but he cannot help this monstrous desire, cannot quiet his need for his hyung’s body. He kisses him, over and over, memorizes every last detail, the two bony hands clutching at his back, the warm skin of the lips he’s kissing, the quivering breath Taeyong releases when he finally finds Jaehyun’s hands on his skin.

Jaehyun remains frozen there for a moment, as if he cannot believe that this has come to pass. Just a moment before he lets his hand wander. Down. Down, down, till his fingertips are trailing over soft hair and soft skin and he almost lets out a sob. He does not. Instead he breaks their kiss, in complete silence, he pulls back to look at Taeyong’s face when his fingers tighten around his length. Warm skin, smooth, heavy flesh in the palm of his hand, he curls his fingers tighter.

He cannot see Taeyong’s body, his skin, his scars, his sinew, his length. He cannot see, in this darkness, in all the folds of cloth hurriedly pushed aside just far enough to slip his hand through, despite all his longing. Instead he fixes his gaze on Taeyong’s face, eyes screwed shut, lips parted as if toying with words, failing to speak, the apple of his throat rising and falling when he swallows.

Jaehyun strokes him softly, just like Dongjun’s whispers, watches Taeyong’s brows knitting.

“My prince,” he whispers. “Would you not look at me?”

Taeyong’s eyelids clench tighter for the briefest second before they open, and Jaehyun is drowning, in complete silence and Taeyong’s beautiful eyes, dark, dark lashes. He tightens his grip, and Taeyong groans softly, his teeth catching his lower lip tight, as if determined not to let another sound slip.

“Hyungnim,” Jaehyun breathes again, leaning in to taste Taeyong’s skin, wet kisses down the side of his neck, and Taeyong groans again. His body stiffens.

“I… how uncouth of me,” he whispers apologetically. Jaehyun smiles against his skin.

“I wish you would be,” he chuckles, his hand moving faster. Taeyong gasps, his hands fisting in Jaehyun’s jeogori, his mouth seeking Jaehyun’s for another kiss. Deep, unhurried, languid kisses to match the slow rising tide of pleasure Jaehyun is bringing with his hands.

“Jaehyun,” he murmurs. His hands slide smoothly over his robes, catch on the knot tied at the front. “Jaehyun, Jaehyun, let me…”

He pulls at the belts, and Jaehyun fumbles. “No,” he whispers. “I expect nothing. You need not defile yourself so…”

“I wish you would defile me,” he murmurs, impatience and lust coloring his words. Jaehyun stares at him, dumbfounded, his whole body aching to be touched, he swears his whole soul reaches for Taeyong like the tide reaches for the moon. And when that slender hand finds his skin and caresses, he shivers as if fevered, he breaks out of his body, the centers of his centers all spilling in violent, crashing waves.

When it’s all over, when the sighing, rising, lapping pleasure is had and gone, he wipes at that same slender hand, at the skin of his abdomen, soiled with their release, tenderly, as tenderly as he can, with the tissue in the breast of jeogori. He kisses his forehead, damp with sweat, his eyelids, fluttering, exhausted. He ties his belts back in place carefully, and he wraps around him, holds him tenderly, as tenderly as he can, till their trembling bodies come down from the heavens. Holds him, the moon to his ocean, the sun in his skies.

 

 

When Taeyong stands beside him the next day, putting the rice and stew and eggs together, he blushes hard. Every touch of their fingertips, every glance, every mischievous smile, has him burning, heart pounding, insides plunging at the thought of what they did to each other. That moment of coming apart at the seams, when he arched against Jaehyun, when he breathed his name like a prayer, when he gave himself up unashamedly, that moment of abandon, he is so afraid of it.

So much more than those shy kisses they are accustomed to, he does not know how either of them allowed it, but he knows it kept him up last night. He knows it kept Jaehyun up, if the dark under his eyes and his stifled yawns are anything to go by.

He feels like a fool, so afraid of how far they could take this before it would have to crumble, so afraid of having to leave him, leave behind this love. He cannot, he cannot think about it, he is too raw, too unprepared, too hurt, too angry with himself.

 

 

 

Taeyong starts when his name is called.

He looks up, his mother is speaking to him across the table.

“Heavens,” she says, smiling. “You have not said a word all evening, are you still with me in Hanyang?”

He smiles at her.

“I am with you,” he says.

“As I was saying,” she says. “We should try and announce the wedding soon. Hong Nae Kyung has said he will be present at the announcement, since her father will remain in the north.”

“Forgive me for interrupting, mother, but who is Hong Nae Kyung?”

“Her grand uncle, of course,” she says.

“Whose?”

“Soohyun’s. Your soon to be wife, have you not heard a word I have said?”

“I am afraid not,” he says blankly.

She regards him carefully for a moment.

“Are you alright, Taeyong?”

He is startled by the question, unsure how honest he can be.

“Do you love her so deeply?” she says again.

“Do I love whom, mother?” he asks carefully.

“The one you were writing all those letters to.”

He takes a breath.

“Would it matter?” he asks quietly.

“No,” she says. “At this juncture, no, I am afraid not.”

He leans back, fingertips tracing the rim of his cup. This, he thinks. Is where it crumbles.

“Then no,” he says. “I never loved at all.”

She moves slowly, her hand resting upon his, holding tight. She fixes him with her gaze.

“I am sorry, my son. I am sorry, that you are hurt, that I must hurt you so,” she says. “But know that this will keep you safe. Know that you will learn to love Soohyun, too. It will not be easy, I promise you, but love is fickle, the heart is fickle, and some day you will teach it to love her.”

 

 

“Sometimes I wonder. How has this come to pass,” Taeyong mumbles. They are seated in the shade of the night queen again. Their haven, overlooking the outskirts and the slums, just visible in the fading light. He shakes his head. “Help me make sense of this. How has this come to pass in my father’s kingdom?”

Jaehyun takes in the regality of Taeyong’s form. Something almost paternal in the way he looks at the sprawling slums, something pained, like a father regarding a ruined son.

“I was hoping you would ask, hyungnim,” he says. He hesitates. He does not know if he should say this. “I have read a great deal over the past few weeks,” he says. “Histories of Joseon, Goryeo, Qing. I have come to the realization that the Joseon monarchy and Confucian principles are inseparable in the minds of the people, they hold the same sway over them.”

Taeyong nods. “Yes, it was decided that the Confucian scholars would advise the king regarding all matters,” he says. “In order to gather the two strongest powers in a man’s life, his king and his god, and to mold them together in one strong pillar of governance. It was an enlightened act of administration.”

Jaehyun smiles. Of course Taeyong is familiar with the histories, he is no fool.

“Admittedly so,” Jaehyun says. He sits on a jagged rock by the tree, fingers running over its edges. “But in doing so, we have neglected the fact that while religion and god are safe in their divinity, the scholars are only men. Men from powerful families, they are vulnerable to greed as are all men, they are open to corruption and their divinity can decay. We have failed to develop a system wherein the advice of the scholars may be analyzed objectively, rejected without repercussion. We have given them a voice and have failed to find a means to silence them lawfully.”

Taeyong frowns, puzzled. “What do you mean, Jaehyun? The king has the right to reject the scholars’ counsel.”

“That is only in principle, hyungnim,” Jaehyun says. He knows he is dealing with a delicate subject, and he must handle it carefully. He knows, but he is sure, that before Taeyong calls himself a prince, he is his friend and equal.

“What do you mean?” he says again.

“I apologize for what I am about to say, hyungnim, but it must be said, and you must listen.”

Taeyong nods. “Alright, go on,” he says.

Jaehyun takes a breath, his fingers finding the weeds growing in the cracks of the rock, pulling at them absently.

“Your father, King Seongjeong, has been a good, wise king, but he has been weak,” he says. He pauses, as if to gauge Taeyong’s reaction. Nothing changes, so he speaks. “He has tried to safeguard his power by forming alliances with all the powerful yangban families of Joseon. But he has forgotten that the scholars, his very own advisors, come from these families. The men of Seonggyungwan are men of great families. Your father was so afraid of displeasing them, of upsetting the fragile peace amidst all the families of Joseon, he failed to be an effective voice to counterbalance the scholars even when they were clearly serving their own purposes. Despite his best intentions for the poor and downtrodden, he has failed to check the corruption and greed in Seonggyungwan, he has failed to silence their voice when they speak for injustice.”

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong says. He gets to his feet slowly. He is upset, Jaehyun can tell. “I do not know what you wish to say, but you will not slander my father while I…”

“Hyungnim, I do not wish to slander him. I am only telling you the truth,” he says, placating. He knew this would happen, and he was prepared for this. Any honorable son would protest if his father’s name were tainted.

“What truth requires me to stand here silently, a shame to filial duty while you smear my father’s name?” Taeyong asks. His feet apart, his shoulders squared, and his hands clasped behind his back, his chin lifted defiantly and his eyes burning with something Jaehyun has never seen before. At first glance, it looks like royal wrath, the kind that has left men hanged and beheaded, burnt villages on a whim and Jaehyun remembers, reminds himself of who he is speaking to. A prince of Joseon. He fumbles.

“You must listen, hyungnim, for you are the only one with the power to do something about this,” he says hesitantly. “No other kingdom has been so inextricably bound to religion, and in no other kingdom have religious scholars been a political faction so strong…”

 “You say the scholars are wrong? That the kings have been fools?”

Taeyong has turned his gaze away. His hands tremble where they are clasped behind his back. He does not know if it is anger, he does not know if he should speak. There it is, everything he was afraid of.

“Have I upset you?” he asks hesitantly.

“I simply cannot understand… you are a member of the Seonggyungwan, how can you be so disloyal to your own peers? How can you disrespect…”

“It is because I have seen their dishonorable secrets, the human greed behind the tenets they push down our throats. Do not be blind to this, can you not see that this blind faith, this dogma is something we have been taught since birth, and that is the very reason no man questions… that is the very reason your father failed to question…” he trails off. Taeyong is standing, resolutely facing away from him, he cannot see his face, and that bothers him. “Would you not look at me?”

“You say they are wrong?” Taeyong asks.

 “Yes, I do. Seonggyeongwan is crawling with foolish, greedy men,” he says. “And you bow down to them, the same men that tell us that you and I cannot be together, that we are blemishes upon civilized society…”

Taeyong’s gaze turns to Jaehyun, and that is when he sees, it is not a faceless royal he is speaking with. It is his brother, his friend, his lover, and he knows something is wrong. That is not royal wrath. That is pain, that is hurt, that is the most human anger.

“And if they are wrong, you would tell everyone you know that you have loved a man, that you have kissed a man and held me like you would hold a woman? Would you not?”

Jaehyun stares, shocked. He was prepared for his anger, but he was not prepared for this. What is this?

“Well, then perhaps,” Taeyong says. “Perhaps we are wrong, and we must spend our lives in penance for our mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” Jaehyun breathes.

A shocked silence stretches thin between the two of them. He cannot speak, only search Taeyong’s face for an explanation, some indication that he has misheard, misunderstood, but he finds nothing there. Only pain, only hurt, only anger. Some burden he hides, something behind his eyes.

“Hyungnim, am I a mistake you have made?” he asks again.

Taeyong lets a moment pass before he softens. His squared shoulders sagging, like a disguise shed, like defeat, like resignation, his brows knitting for a moment, his mouth taking a hard line.

“I have spoken in anger,” Taeyong says. “Forgive me.”

“Has something happened?” Jaehyun asks.

Taeyong looks to the ground. “No,” he says. “Nothing has happened. I was only overwhelmed, I have misspoken.”

Jaehyun watches him. He is lying, and that hurts him.

“I am afraid I must take my leave now,” he says. “We will meet again when I have calmed. I am… afraid that I will speak wrongly again.”

“I am not,” Jaehyun says. “Say what you must.”

“Jaehyun, please,” Taeyong breathes. “Please, let us meet again later, I cannot… I cannot speak with you anymore.”

 

Jaehyun watches him go, his heart sinking, his stomach twisting, his hands trembling. Something has left Taeyong hurt and angry, something, that has pushed his quiet, patient hyungnim so far, he has lashed out at Jaehyun. He does not know what it is, and he will never know till Taeyong himself cedes to tell him.

Or perhaps he has misjudged, he thinks. Perhaps Taeyong will always be a royal before he is his friend. Perhaps he will always choose his family, his honor, his religion, his god over anything Jaehyun could offer.

 

 

A week passes in silence, and it is not lost on Taeyong, he knows how he hurt Jaehyun. He knows what he said, he knows how it sounded, and he wishes he had not been so thoughtless. He did not mean a word of it.

Standing there looking at those miserable slums, Jaehyun challenged everything about him, his title, his blood, his religion, every single thing keeping him from Jaehyun.

The Yi family, monarchs of Joseon, staunch believers in the new tenets, of power and status, leading Joseon by example. Honorable men with honorable wives, living their lives as the scholars advised, governing the nation as the scholars advised. As the scholars advised, and yet there were myriads suffering. What is the meaning of this power, this honor, this status, this blood, if all the kings before him remained silent against injustice? What is the meaning of any of it, if their weakness was to blame for those children begging in the streets?

Yi Taeyong, son of King Seongjeong, a foolish young man, marrying a good girl to keep his honor unquestioned, to keep his power and status, and Jaehyun had inadvertently questioned it all. He had asked, and Taeyong could not answer, he was still so raw, so unprepared to face him, bound by the word he gave that he would marry that girl, and he could not reconcile those two thoughts.

He cannot accept the truth of what Jaehyun said without questioning his own blood, his own religion.

He cannot shake this feeling, that perhaps Jaehyun is right.

 

 

He kneels where he did before, makes quince tea the way he mother taught him, and he pours it for his father.

“You have returned,” the man rasps. Taeyong cannot bear to think of how weak he sounds.

“I have questions,” he says quietly.

“Well?”

He swallows thickly, arranging the cup upon a silver plate, his gaze fixed on all his banal activities.

“Do you know how the commoners live?” he says, his throat thick with fear.

“Pardon?”

“Are you aware of the poverty and misery that has befallen the people of your kingdom? Were you aware of what you let happen in your reign?” he says again. He keeps his voice calm, the accusation far, but still there. He hands the cup to his father, with both hands, bowing. He takes it from him, waves away the attendant who steps forward to test it for poison.

“Yes,” he says, taking a sip. “Your mother has taught you well, this suits my tastes.”

“Why did you let it happen?” Taeyong asks.

The former king smiles. “Ah, my boy, now you have begun to think,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me, you must have arrived at some conclusions?”

“I have spoken with a close friend, a scholar from Seonggyungwan. He says the cause for this lies in the fact that we have tied religion and state too close. That in doing so, we have given the scholars power which we cannot control. That their influence is strengthened every day by the fact that only they are in possession of the great wells of literacy and knowledge, and they use their advantage to exploit the commoners. No commoner has the means to raise his voice against this, and no Yangban has the need to raise his voice against this.”

He waits, nervous, heart hammering at the fact that he is kneeling before his king and father, spitting on his reign.

“Your friend is right,” the king says. “And brave, telling a prince of his father’s failures.”

He was right, he was perfectly right and the king knew it, too. His throat tightens and his heart clenches.

“I know,” he replies.

“And now you wish to ask me how I let this happen if I were aware of everything transpiring around me,” he says. “It is not that I chose not to do anything about this, Taeyong. It is only that I did what I could, and that was not enough. I could not stand against the power they built over decades of our history. The peculiar privilege of convincing a nation that it was their right to exploit the lower born, and the duty of the lower born to be grateful for it.”

He feels dissonance rising, tumbling, unsettling his mind. Everything he has known, questioned, everything he has learnt to trust and respect, crumbling.

“Do you understand?” he asks. “There is no voice in all of Joseon that can silence God, and they have convinced my people that they speak for God.”

“You say they could be wrong, they could be greedy, they are only men. That the kingdom suffers because of their greed, and yet we can do nothing to fight them.”

“Not from the outside, but a king, strong enough, loved by his people, can. I was not strong. I have tired of the throne. You still have a chance, my son.”

Taeyong almost misses it, in his preoccupation, in his unsettled thoughts, he almost misses it.

_You still have a chance, my son._

He looks up, questioning, afraid to ask. It could not be true. Was he allowed to come back here, brought back from Gongju to take his father’s place? It could not be true.

“Why did you allow me to return to Hanyang? Now, after all these years?”

“You have grown away from the poisons of Hanyang. You have grown under the guidance of the Jungs and the masters of Gongju, you have been taught kindness and justice, reason, religion. You have learnt the true qualities of a monarch in the absence of fear and insecurity and greed and lies. I only believe that the time has come for you to use those qualities.”

“The crown prince…”

“Is tainted with his mother’s poison. He is a heretic and a fool. Neither god nor wisdom to show him the right path. I tried my best with him, too, and it appears as though I am a failure in that respect as well.”

“I have never aspired for the throne.”

“And that is precisely why you are fit for it.”

“I cannot… my brother has already been made king.”

“And while he remains there, you will temper his madness with your reason. But he cannot remain a king for long. He is temperamental. It pains me as a father to say this, but as a king to my people I must tell you, he will fall. When he does, you will rise. You do not know it, child, but men rally around your name behind closed doors, they raise your name for hope.”

“I do not…”

“You will see for yourself soon enough,” he says. “You will rise, a good, strong king, you will stand unblemished in history, you will do it for your father. And I will watch over you, from heaven or earth and I will be proud.”

 

 

“Hyungnim,” Jaehyun says softly. Taeyong raises his head, recognizes Jaehyun’s figure. He stands.

“I thought you would not come,” he says, leaning against the trunk of the night queen, its fragrance heady and think in the air.

“I thought the same of you,” Jaehyun says, moving closer.

“I hurt you,” Taeyong replies. “I spoke in a fit, I did not… you were so distraught, I saw it. I…”

“You were angry,” Jaehyun states.

“I came to ask for forgiveness,” Taeyong says. “I was not angry with you. I was only overwhelmed, and the circumstances so arose that the words slipped from my mouth wrongly. I could not… cannot bear the thought of hurting you so.”

“Then you are forgiven,” Jaehyun says. “You need not bear anything further.”

Taeyong hears the hurt in those words.

“Jaehyun, please, listen.”

“Speak, then.”

Minced words, the accusation clear.

“I am only afraid,” he says. “I… in letters, you were you, you were the memory of everything I held dear, you were all my happiness, you were poetry and patience and understanding and… here, now, you… you are a man, in the flesh, you are a man.”

“I am, yes, a man. I have always been, even when you pressed your lips to mine so many times, even when you touched me the way you did.”

“I have been told all my life that we are steeped in sin,” he begins, but Jaehyun cuts him off.

“What has changed?” he says. A moment passes in silence. “What burdens do you hide from me?”

He looks at Jaehyun, pale in the fading light, the memory of their last kiss, their tender embrace, them coming apart in each other’s arms, still so fresh in this place. Perhaps today will be the day it falls apart.

“What has changed, is that…” he trails off. He braces himself. “If your parents wished you married, if they wished for grandchildren, would you be so unfilial as to deny them that? Would you tell them that you would not marry because you love me?”

“Hyungnim, I…”

Jaehyun is at a loss for words.

“Do not speak before you think. Tell me, Jaehyun, what of your parents? What of the dishonor you would bring them?”

Jaehyun looks at him as though he cannot believe what is happening. As though he does not understand how they came to be in this situation.

“And what of us?” he asks.

“What of us? What I said still stands, could you tell them about us? Could you tell anyone?” he says. He knows his voice is beginning to sound strained. His stomach cramping painfully.

“I would.”

“You would not.”

Another moment passes in silence.

“Hyungnim, I… I understand. It is true, perhaps I have idealized the situation. Perhaps I have not thought of many things. But I am in love with you, hyungnim, does that count for nothing? Is that not enough? For my parents and yours, for the whole of Joseon to be content with?”

“Jaehyun,” he says. It is neither a warning nor a plea for him to stop speaking. Stop giving him hope when there is none.

“Ah,” Jaehyun says. “I suppose it could never be enough.”

“I cannot…”

“You wish to end this?”

“No,” he breathes. “How could I ever… but I am afraid it is no longer a question of my wishes.”

“What?”

This is it, he thinks. This is when it all crumbles, this is how far they could take it.

“Your uncle would have me married to your cousin.”

“Soohyun? When did…” he says, and he steps forward, his hands curling around Taeyong’s arms, pulling him closer. “No. No, you cannot, she is still young. She is… she is…”

“She is not you,” Taeyong says. “She is a girl, and I am so accursed, I could never look at her as someone to love and hold.”

“That is what you have been hiding from me,” he says, and there is so much hurt in his eyes, Taeyong has to look away. “You have known for so long…”

“I have come to ask you what to do. You have always been better read than I am. I am a warrior, you a student. Today I am a Royal, you a scholar. I come to you for counsel. What shall I do?”

“Your scholar is biased,” Jaehyun breathes.

“Jaehyun, what shall I do?” he says again, voice trembling. “I am caught, Jaehyun. I owe my mother a place in the palace, I owe my father an honorable son, an heir, a prince who can fight the battles he lost, and I owe it to Soohyun to marry her, when her family has turned down her suitors believing she will marry me. I am caught. I believe you, Jaehyun, I believe in you, when you say the scholars are wrong, when you say our love is right. But can you promise me we will hurt no one, that our love will let our families live with their heads held high?”

“Hyungnim…”

“Promise me, and I will be with you till I die.”

“I cannot,” he says, his eyes red rimmed and his breath harsh.

“Then this ends here,” he breathes. “The marriage will be announced by the end of this week.”

“I was naïve, was I not?” Jaehyun says in a daze.

“You were not alone,” Taeyong tells him, wrapping his arms around Jaehyun, holding him close while he trembles like a leaf in the wind.

 

The day of the announcement comes silently, stretches long and arduous ahead of him. Taeyong stands in the banquet hall in the minister’s home, dressed in his finest robes, men and women laughing all around him. He sees Soohyun briefly, till she is swallowed up in a group of ladies gushing over how lucky she is. His mother rests her hand on his three times in the course of the event. She looks at him and smiles, comforting, reassuring, reminding him to smile, too.

He greets Jaehyun’s parents, here in the capital for their beloved niece’s wedding, with deep, deep bows. He smiles. He cannot speak. The only thing on his mind is what Jaehyun looked like when he walked away from him. What his mouth felt like when they last kissed. Where is he? He cannot speak.

Where is he?

He sees him, tall, broad shouldered, elegant in deep blue robes. His throat tightens and his hands tremble, but he smiles, and Jaehyun smiles at him. Familiar, gentle, shining brighter than the sun.

Men and women laughing all around them, oh how handsome he is, oh how beautiful she has grown, what a well matched couple, but he keeps his eyes on Jaehyun. At his hesitant steps towards him, heart pounding, smile slipping, he watches him kneel at the table across him.

“Jaehyun,” he breathes. Too soft for anyone to hear.

“Hmm?” Jaehyun says, pouring two cups of tea. He hands him one, his hands are trembling, too.

Taeyong takes a sip, as if to calm himself, his hand reaching out to hold Jaeyun’s briefly, as if to calm him, too.

“Congratulations,” Jaehyun says. “To you and my baby sister. I could not think of a finer man to marry her.”

“Thank you,” Taeyong says. He has to put his cup down and tighten his hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

 

Jaehyun kneels before his mother, in the spare chambers of his uncle’s house. It is late, and all the men are in the garden, drinking, rejoicing, all the women have retired. Here he is, kneeling before his mother while she sits at her table and reads, and he rests his head in her lap.

“What is it?” she asks softly, her hand gentle, stroking his hair.

“Nothing, mother,” he says, and like a fool, his voice breaks around the words. And the moment his weakness has been revealed, he crumbles. His whole body shudders, his breath leaving his chest in a silent cry, his brows knit and teeth clench and he tries his best to hold it back but he sobs.

“Jaehyun,” she breathes, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “Oh, Jaehyun, what is it? What is it?”

“I… I have missed you,” he breathes, a lie, a pathetic lie. “Nothing more.”

“Look at me,” she says. “My son, look at me.”

He straightens up, trembling, his whole body trembling. She holds her hands to his cheeks, and he looks up at her.

“Perhaps you could go see him tonight,” she suggests softly.

He stares at her, how could she know? She could not, no…

“He is not married yet,” she says. “Go see him.”

“How?” he fumbles.

She smiles, pats his cheeks gently. “Mothers know,” she says cheekily. “From the moment you tripped over yourself to get his attention, learnt how to fight from Kim Jae, wrote him letters upon letters, I knew. Perhaps I didn’t always understand it, but I see you today, and this looks like love to me.”

“Are you not ashamed of me?” he asks.

“I could never be,” she replies. “I will always be prouder than proud.”

 

 

He stands, tired, while Choi Jin works the jewels out of his hair, the rings off his fingers, the knots off his heavy robes.

“You have a visitor,” Choi Jin says quietly.

“What visitor?” Taeyong asks. “I have not been informed of…”

His words trail off when he looks up at Choi Jin’s face.

“Jaehyun?” he breathes. “Is it Jaehyun?”

Choi Jin nods. “I thought Master Jung would want to see you tonight, so I informed the guards that you would be expecting a late visitor,” he says. “I have just received word that he has arrived. Forgive me for taking such liberties, your highness, but…”

“How did you know?”

Choi Jin hesitates. “He looks at you as if you are the sun,” he says. Halting, uncertain. “And you… I know what love looks like. I know how lovers look at each other when they are torn apart.”

Taeyong’s breath catches in his throat.

“You have nothing to fear, your highness,” the young eunuch says.

A voice calls out, outside his door. Announcing the arrival of his visitor.

Jaehyun’s name.

“Open the door,” Taeyong breathes.

Choi Jin bows, and steps away, slides the door open. A figure stands in the doorway, tall, elegant, in deep blue robes. Broad shouldered and pale. Taeyong cannot bear to look at him, so he keeps his eyes on the ground.

“Leave us,” he says quietly. “And tell the guards my visitor will be staying the night.”

He sees the eunuch out of the corner of his eye, bowing first to him, then to Jaehyun, then stepping out. The door slides shut behind him, A lattice of light taking form on the floor beneath his feet. Footfalls nearing, familiar, a shadow nearing.

Arms wrap around his waist.

“For tonight, I will take the blame,” Jaehyun murmurs. “For all our sins, I will take the blame, I will take your burdens, so you can love to your heart’s content.”

Taeyong withdraws from his embrace and regards him carefully for a moment. “You are no burden,” He murmurs, leaning in and kissing him tenderly. “You are no sin.”

Jaehyun cups his face, and Taeyong can see the hard line his mouth takes, and the way his jaw clenches and unclenches. “Love me all the same,” he says, and the break in his voice, the raw, bleeding edge to his voice tells Taeyong that he is heartbroken, that the strong hands holding his heart are trembling.

He leans in again, kisses him like it’s the first time, like it’s the last time he could ever do this. A dim library with a flickering candle and the whisper of paper, Jaehyun’s voice. A grassy clearing and a thousand lanterns rising like prayers, Jaehyun’s smile.

“Jaehyun,” he murmurs, his hands finding the younger’s, leading them to the cloth belts of his own jeogori. A tangle of hands pull hesitantly at the belts, and they don’t know who has untied the knot when the belts fall away. They don’t know who has pushed the robes off Taeyong’s body and bared his skin.

Jaehyun’s fingertips trail over his skin, as if afraid of touching him, but his gaze travels over his bare chest with the courage his hands lack.

“Go on,” he says, and fingertips are followed by palms, hands sliding surely over his waist, lips pressing kisses to his neck. His eyes flutter shut, his hands sliding up Jaehyun’s arms and over his shoulders. One hand fists in his robes as if keeping them both rooted to that moment, one hand grips at the back of Jaehyun’s neck. His head tips back, too heavy to hold up, and the younger tightens his grip on Taeyong’s waist, pulls him even closer.

“You will drive me mad,” he murmurs, breathing in the scent of lavender in Taeyong’s skin, his hand sliding down to fumble with the knot on Taeyong’s baji.

“And you will not resist,” Taeyong whispers.

“I couldn’t, I could never resist you. I could never…” he says, and the knot comes loose. “Never resist you, I want to lose myself in you, won’t you let me?”

Taeyong nods.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

Barely a moment passes before the cloth is stripped away from his body. He trembles, flushed hot, embarrassed, his insides plunging with desire when Jaehyun’s eyes trail lazily over his skin. His hands guide him to lay down on the quilts and he kneels between Taeyong’s parted thighs. His chest rises and falls.

He feels exposed in a way that far exceeds the baring of skin, like layers upon layers of silk and status and honor have been stripped away from him and all that remains is the core of his being, and he is nothing more than a boy of nineteen, helplessly, hopelessly in love, burning in love, drowning in love. In that moment, he’s in love.

He stares up at the ceiling, deep red wooden pillars and a dark wooden ceiling. Gilded, painted in patterns of water lilies and cranes. He hears the clink of the oil jar opening. The scent of lavender in the air. His chest flushes warm when he thinks of what’s to come. Jaehyun hovers over him, his face ghastly pale in that dim light, beautiful with his warm, sleepy eyes, filled only with love, only for him.

Warm oil drips onto his skin, and his eyes fall closed. One finger, oil slick, presses against him gently. He exhales, slow and deliberate, but his breath shivers when a shudder passes through his body.

“Do you trust me?” Jaehyun whispers again.

“With everything I have,” he replies breathlessly. He feels when Jaehyun lowers himself, the silk of his sleeve sliding over Taeyong’s shoulder where he rests his weight on one hand next to his head, the belts of his jeogori tickling Taeyong’s abdomen. He feels his breath on his skin, the delicate press of lips to his jaw, and then Jaehyun kisses him on the mouth, something fevered simmering beneath the surface. And then the push inside him. Knuckle deep. His breath is hitching.

Taeyong screws his eyes shut, the scent of lavender is strong in the air, the sounds of their sins too loud in the quiet night, wet mouths and tongues slipping and sliding and the press of Jaehyun’s fingers inside him, slick, carnal, not enough.

Taeyong gasps when he’s stretched around three fingers. His head is spinning. This foreign pain, sharing his body with another, this breach of all his boundaries, this love he can’t hold inside him anymore, he feels sick. His hand fists in Jaehun’s sleeve.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispers, and he shakes his head no.

This isn’t quite pain. This is some exquisite torture, this is the promise of what’s to come.

Jaehyun withdraws his fingers, straightening up to undress himself, but Taeyong cannot wait, cannot lie there and do nothing when his whole body is aching to touch him. He sits up on his knees, impatient, and he reaches for the knots on Jaehyun’s jeogori. Jaehyun watches, one helpless hand curled loosely around Taeyong’s wrist while he unties the belts. He pushes the clothes off Jaehyun’s body, reaching unashamedly for his baji and pushing it down his thighs.

Jaehyun exhales harshly, his hand tightening around Taeyong’s wrist, pushing to guide him back onto the bedding, his grip tight around his wrist when he pins him against the quilts.

“Till the day you marry her, you are mine,” he breathes against Taeyong’s mouth, possessive, almost angry.

“Till the day I die,” Taeyong murmurs, leaning up to brush his lips against Jaehyun’s, tender, calming.

Jaehyun presses his face to Taeyong’s neck, his strong thighs slotting between Taeyong’s own, and he feels the press of his length against his thigh. His whole body burns. Jaehyun’s hand reaches down, down out of Taeyong’s sight. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, traces the curves of water lilies and memorizes the exact shade of pink in their petals and the green of their leaves.

He feels Jaehyun press against his entrance. He feels him slipping in, thick, too much, a groan muffled against his skin. He almost cries out, almost sobs because he must learn everything, learn the colors on the ceiling, the air thick with the scent of lavender, the smooth skin of Jaehyun’s back, the sound of his composure slipping, the warmth of his breath coming ragged against his skin and there’s so much to learn and keep in his heart for the rest of his life, there’s too much and he cannot take it all.

Jaehyun is raising himself off Taeyong’s body, lifting his weight onto two hands. His gaze rests heavy on Taeyong, suffocating. His chest flushes.

“You are beautiful,” Jaehyun says. “So beautiful when you blush for me.”

 And he breaks out of his body under Jaehyun’s gaze. He feels like the sun, like a thing of beauty, he feels loved.

“Move,” he breathes, his eyes shutting tight when he feels Jaehyun’s fingertips pressing into his thighs, parting them wider, moving inside him, out and in again, this exquisite pain, their sin, this love he can’t hold inside him. He hears how irregular his breath sounds, feels him pressing in harder.

“Till the day I die,” Taeyong whispers again.

The hands on his thighs tighten till he’s certain he’s bruising, the press inside him harder and deeper and he’s gasping, all his muscles tightening. He’s made one with the love of his life, they’re joined together in this ecstasy, their souls intertwined under the moon and the stars, a promise made under heaven and that’s more, so much more than marriage could ever mean.

Jaehyun cries out in frustration, his grip loosening, his length slipping away, and Taeyong gasps. Strong hands grip his sides and turn him over onto his knees, strong hands gripping his wrists and pinning him down, a broad chest pressed against his back, thick thighs against the backs of his own, and an ugly whine is torn from his throat when Jaehyun takes him like that.

Bodies writhing in silk quilts, only you, only you.

Taeyong finds that Jaehyun has made a mess of him, no semblance of royalty in the way he is pressed against his bedding, lips on his neck and ear, no dignity in the way he gasps and moans and pleads, no power, not when his wrists are gripped so tight. There is nothing left of him but the love he keeps hidden from the world.

He hears a sort of sob, wretched against his ear.

“You have my whole heart,” Jaehyun breathes against the shell of his ear. Vows, a sort of desperation, a sort of trance. “My whole soul is yours, you are brighter than the sun, my love, I will live my life in your light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave many many comments I am going to need sustenance in exam season. Thank you <3  
> I really hope you enjoyed this omg.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically after the Japanse surrendered Korea, a lot of independent peoples' councils consisting of koreans were formed to take over power smoothly.  
> In Jeju, they were very organized and popular (the SKLP I mentioned in this chapter).  
> So when the trusteeship government happened, with the US in south and the Soviet Union in the north, they protested pretty hard. Then when the US decided to have elections in the South independently, while the North refused to take part, they felt like their country was being divided without reason and they boycotted the elections.  
> Their protests were not received well, and were crushed brutally by Rhee Syngman, who was pretty powerful in the south. Then there was a whole other kind of fucked up, where every time a group of people raised their voices against the Syngman banner or any of their administrative moves, they were called communist sympathizers and ostracized or killed.  
> There's a looot of very horrifying, very eye opening reading to be done here, check it out if you have the time. And I hope you enjoy the chapter <3

**1948, Seoul**

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, photograph’s here,” Taeyong mumbles, barely looking up from his textbook. Some ink diagram of hairy slipper looking things covers half a page and Taeyong’s staring at it like he wants to memorize where every last hair is. He’s fumbling on the table top blindly, eyes glued to his textbook, and Jaehyun can see the black and white picture from where he’s sitting on the bed, but it stays resolutely out of Taeyong’s reach.

He sighs. Gets to his feet with an exasperated smile.

“It’s here, I’ve got it,” he says reaching over Taeyong’s shoulder and picking it up.

It’s a picture of him with his graduating class, twenty boys in pressed white shirts and dark trousers, dark ties, standing straight backed and stiff. He scans the faces for Taeyong’s, and there he is, hair combed back neatly, crisp white shirt and a navy blue tie, he remembers the color, neat leather shoes polished to a shine. He’s standing in the first row, right in the middle, handsome as hell and the shortest of the lot. He chuckles.

“What?” Taeyong says, still not looking up.

“Nothing,” Jaehyun says. He squeezes Taeyong’s shoulder for a second. “Just thinking about how small you are.”

Taeyong’s muscles tense, he feels it under his palm, and he turns to look at Jaehyun, some volcanic fire in his eyes. “I’m not small,” he says.

“It’s not a bad thing, you’re still the best looking face here,” he says, chuckling.

He sees it, he actually sees it, the color climbing Taeyong’s cheeks, the way his mouth opens hesitantly and closes again, the way his lashes dip and his chin dips. “Sure, maybe, but I’m not small,” he mumbles and turns back to his book.

He likes that. He likes it a lot, that pretty blush, and he wants to touch his skin and feel the warmth of that flush. That light, fine, peach fuzz hair on the back of his neck, he wants to touch that too, but he can’t, because that would be really fucking bizarre.

“What’s that?” he asks instead. Palm resting lightly on his shoulder now, peering over at his book.

“Paramecium,” Taeyong replies distractedly.

“Why is it so hairy?”

“They’re cilia, it uses them to swim in water,” he says.

“Cilia, that’s interesting.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey hyung?”

“Hmm?”

“You want to blow this off and come out with me for a bit?”

“Are you insane? My exam is…”

“Thirteen days away, I know. Sorry, study hard,” he says, giving his shoulder another squeeze and then turning away. He hasn’t taken two steps when Taeyong speaks.

“Give me ten minutes,” he says softly.

He turns back, and Taeyong’s looking down at his book. That flush still dusting his skin. He smiles.

“I’ll wait at the backdoor,” he says.

 

 

Jaehyun sits on the wooden stairs at the kitchen door. Moths and mosquitos are buzzing around the single incandescent bulb above his head, a radio’s on somewhere in the house. He’s tearing leaves to shreds absently, his mind wandering.

Something’s changed between them. Jaehyun knows it, or he thinks he does. It’s different, right, because now it’s out in the open between them, that Taeyong likes boys. Well, neither of them has said it, really, and they’re still pretending nothing happened, but it must be true?

Something’s changed now, since he first dreamt of kissing him. Since that first bizarre dream under the maple, that shook him to his bones and left him wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. But he looked at Taeyong, and something felt right, something coming their way.

It began with the way he held him, dusty music and decaying memories all around them, the way he held him, what it felt like to do what he did. Something changed, he thinks. It’s in the fact that Jaehyun sat on Taeyong’s bed and looked at the ring on Taeyong’s little finger, and he did it with Taeyong’s hand sitting delicately on his palm.

What’s this?

It was my mother’s. Uncle gave it to me before leaving. This and the coat.

It’s nice. Is that a diamond?

Ruby, dummy, how is that a diamond?

What? I don’t know these things, I’m poor.

It sounds like every other conversation they have, but it’s in the little things, the parts of Taeyong’s body he’s begun to claim that should belong only to tenderness and lovers, his hand, the nape of his neck, the inner side of his wrist, and if he ever, ever falls asleep around Taeyong, he rests his head on his thigh, on his chest or his shoulder, because then he dreams the most beautiful dreams.

Something’s changed now, because those dreams feel so real, so, so real, and every time it’s something new, like feeling the bumps of his spine against his palm, he needs to know if that’s what it really feels like. And always, that’s what it really feels like. All the skin he’s touched and seen, it’s exactly like his dreams. Speckled with three black dots just under the angle of his jaw. Warm and soft, his bony hands, the lines in them, the way they fit in his, it’s all the same, and that amazes him.

The door creaks open behind him, a rectangle of light shifting shadows on the grass in front of him. He turns around. Taeyong’s smiling at him.

“Done,” he says. “Where to, sir?”

Jaehyun shrugs. “I don’t know, you want to just… sit here?”

Taeyong laughs, kicking at the small of his back lightly. “This was the big plan?”

 He didn’t really have a plan, to be honest. He just didn’t want to spend the night staring at the back of Taeyong’s head while he studied hairy slipper things. “We could… I don’t know, anything you want to do.”

“Here’s just fine,” Taeyong says, settling down beside him.

His hair is standing up oddly at the back of his head, and Jaehyun can picture it, that thing he does when he’s frustrated, his hands slipping into his hair and tugging lightly, and it brings a small smile to his face. He reaches up and smoothes it down, hand sliding from the back of his head to his neck and his shoulder. He slings his arm over, comfortable.

Something’s changed between them. Still friends, brothers even, but when they look at each other, something swims beneath the surface and he knows it.

  

 

Taeyong stands in the Severance Hospital bathroom, wiping spit from the corner of his mouth and tears from his eyes. The taste of tofu and green onions lingers in the back of his throat and his nose burns with spice.

At least he doesn’t feel so nauseated anymore. He looks around, newspaper lines the window panes, peeling unattractively from a corner. He wonders if no one bothered to take the paper down since the frames were painted. The floors are an ugly cement mosaic and all the washbasins and taps are water stained and grimy.

He grabs his collar and flaps it gracelessly, an uncomfortable layer of sweat on the back of his neck despite the chill in the bathroom.

The door swings open noisily, and Jaehyun rushes in. “You okay now? I have water,” he says, handing him a bottle.

“I’m fine,” Taeyong replies, taking small sips of cool water, and Jaehyun fusses about, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, fishing the handkerchief out of Taeyong’s pocket, wetting it, handing it to Taeyong.

“Will you be alright for the exam?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, dabbing at his face and neck with the cool, wet cloth. He’s beginning to feel it again, that twisting turning sickness in his stomach, and he groans, his fingers tightening in the front of his shirt.

“Are you nervous? Is it just nerves?”

“No, of course not,” Taeyong says.

Jaehyun grins. “Of course not,” he says, throwing an arm around his shoulders and squeezing. “You’re the smartest ever, you’ll do fine. You have nothing to be nervous about.”

Taeyong smiles. Maybe the twisting eases up a little.

“You think?” he says.

“I know,” Jaehyun replies.

 

When they return four hours later, he sits down at the kitchen table to have a cup of tea with Seo Eun halmeoni. He tells her how well the exam went.

“It was a little difficult, but it went well,” he says.

“I knew it,” she says. “Your mother used to tell me all the time, tofu and green onions, they’re good for the head.”

He looks up at Jaehyun, where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, cradling a cup. He catches him smiling, his eyes fixed on the tea swirling in his cup.

“Yeah, that soup,” he says. “It helped.”

Jaehyun stifles a chuckle. Neither of them have the heart to tell her that soup has been traversing the drains all morning.

 

 

Jaehyun catches the big sign with black painted letters spelling Severance Hospital out of the corner of his eye, and he slows the car, turning into entry road to the big brick building. He smiles. Taeyong looks petrified beside him, all neat and professional with his tie and his crisp shirt, and his hair combed back like he’s already a doctor, and he looks like a small scared child.

It’s been four days since the afternoon Taeyong came sprinting down the wooden stairs past the backdoor, launched himself into Jaehyun’s arms and sent him staggering back into the damp sheets hanging on the clothesline. His ears reddened, his hands steadying on Taeyong’s waist, notes of lavender and his heady laugh.

I got it, he said. I got in, they’ve sent a letter.

Jaehyun smiled, wrapped his arms around him so tight, he felt a little exhale leaving Taeyong’s chest at that sudden embrace.

I knew it, I told you, Jaehyun said to him that day. A few hours after that, when he was helping the maid change the curtains in the living room, he saw Juinnim, clapping Taeyong on the back with a smile, squeezing his shoulder briefly, and he saw Taeyong bowing tentatively, respectfully, and it made him happy to see them happy together. And it made him proud to know that he got the news even before Taeyong’s father did.

The hospital building comes into view, and Jaehyun lets out a low whistle.

“We’re here,” Jaehyun says, still a little awestruck at the imposing brick building and the low trees scattered in front of it. Taeyong nods. He leans forward to take a look, and then sinks back in his seat as if struck.

Jaehyun grins, drives past the building to the apartments about five minutes away. He brings the car to a stop and turns to Taeyong, sitting stock still in his seat, twisting the buttons on the coat lying in his lap.

“You’re not nervous or anything, right?”

“Of course not,” Taeyong says.

“Of course not,” he repeats, and Taeyong nods vigorously.

Jaehyun hides his smile with a bowed head, turning away, getting out of the car. He shivers a little, even with his thin jacket, and busies himself with getting Taeyong’s trunk and suitcase out of the car. They had decided, that travelling back and forth from the Big House to the hospital in Sinchon-dong would be tiring and pointless, and the best thing to do would be for Taeyong to live in the teaching hospital’s dormitories. Jaehyun just nodded when Taeyong told him, and said okay, alright, that’s fine. I’ll just see you on weekends then.

That still doesn’t change the fact that he felt some sinking loneliness fill him up when he walked in on Taeyong laying out the clothes he was going to pack. Shirts and trousers, socks, cotton vests, the cross that used to hang on the wall above his desk, neatly packed into the same wooden trunk he’s currently unloading from the car. Taeyong smiled at him, folding his shirts, and Jaehyun grinned back, but he went downstairs and did his chores for the rest of the day, staying far away from all the packing and preparation for Taeyong to leave. He knew he was being stupid, he’d see him on weekends anyway, but still, he didn’t like the thought of not saying goodnight to his hyung every night.

Taeyong comes around slowly, sticking out a skinny hand to grab the other end of the heavy trunk. There’s two other boys already lugging baggage up the narrow stairs of the dormitory building.

“Can you button up your jacket, please?” he says, eyebrows raised when Jaehyun shivers again. “It’s getting cold.”

“No chance,” Jaehyun replies, turning them around so Taeyong can go up the stairs first. “I’ll look like a total fuddy.”

“What’s a fuddy?” Taeyong says, struggling up the stairs with the weight of the trunk.

“You know,” Jaehyun replies, trying to take more of the weight. He grins up at Taeyong. “Like, fuddy duddy.”

“I still don’t know what that means,” Taeyong says.

“That’s because you’re a total fuddy.”

“You mean crazy handsome and amazingly smart,” Taeyong says.

“Okay, let’s go with that.”

 

When they’ve finally brought everything to Taeyong’s room on the second floor, they’re dead tired, lying spread eagled on the floor. Jaehyun looks around. It’s a small room, just about fitting a rusty metal cot and mattress, a wardrobe, and a desk to one side. There’s a mirror on the back of the door.

“So, common bathrooms, huh?” he says, turning to look over at Taeyong.

“Mm,” Taeyong says, tired. He shifts to lay his hands on his abdomen, fingers linked together. “I’ll get used to it.”

“You nervous?” he asks again.

“Of course not,” Taeyong replies, staring up at the ceiling. “Will you miss me?”

“Of course not.”

Taeyong grins.

“You’ll do great,” Jaehyun says. “You’re the smartest ever, remember?”

Taeyong turns to him, a small, soft smile on his lips. “I’ll be home every weekend,” he says.

 

 

The first week, Jaehyun’s fine, he’s busy and tired from work, Daehyun’s cousins are in town and they’re loud and fun and he doesn’t really notice that Taeyong’s not around. The first weekend, Taeyong doesn’t make it home, because he has to be in his room for the whole freshman ribbing scene. He calls home from the phone in the common room of his dormitory and tells him he’s sorry, but he can’t come. That’s Friday night, and Jaehyun goes to bed more disappointed than he thought he’d be. Saturday, he goes to work, comes home in the evening, and sits around in the kitchen munching on pieces of carrot that his grandmother had cut for dinner, wondering what to do. She swats at his hands, throws him out for being a nuisance, and he goes to bed early.

Sunday, he runs over to the bakery to help the ahjussi with inventory. Two hours of work, and then he has nothing to do again. He sighs and eats sweet potato on the street corner and plays catch with the neighborhood kids and squints into shop windows and pets the cat for a bit and reads the papers, but by the time night comes, he’s bored. Reading the paper with him, his big, thoughtful eyes when he talks about politics, listening to songs on the radio with him, his stupid laugh. He’s bored.

Joon Jae comes over, and Jaehyun can see in his snide remarks that he thinks he was right from the start. Wait and see, he’ll drop you, your poor manual labor ass, for his new doctor friends.

The second week, halfway through, Jaehyun dreams, of bony hands that sit just right in Jaehyun’s palm, a body fits in Jaehyun’s hands, slender wrists and the back of a neck, soft hair between his fingers. He wakes up, and he finds that he misses Taeyong like crazy, his softness, his smile, his pretty lips, his warmth when Jaehyun curls against him to fall asleep.

He wonders if he should visit Taeyong.

The second week, Thursday, Jaehyun’s grandmother makes curried shrimp, and Jaehyun takes a whiff and thinks of how happy Taeyong would be if he could eat that.

“Why’d you make it today?” he asks her, licking the ladle she’d used for cooking, while she grimaces and smacks him on the head. He licks it anyway, watching while she empties the pot into a serving bowl. “Should have made it on Saturday, so hyung would get to eat it.”

“Juinnim asked for it,” she says. “Someone’s coming for lunch.”

Jaehyun nods.

“I’ve packed some for him, take it to him in the evening,” she says.

He looks up at her. “Really?” he says.

She nods, and his heart soars. He’s visiting Taeyong, alright.

 

 

Jaehyun stands outside the dormitory, wrapping his jacket tight around himself, shivering in the chilly evening air. The shrimp is in a stainless steel box, wrapped in cloth and tucked under his arm.

He’s been standing there for about thirty minutes, he thinks. Young, well dressed men have walked past and most have ignored his existence, but some have given him a once over, and he knows he hasn’t got much worth looking at. He feels thoroughly out of place. The guard has come over once to ask him who he is and why he’s lurking outside the dorms, and he’s beginning to feel really, really awkward.

He rolls his shoulders, stiff from the hour long bus ride and the half hour spent standing out in the cold. He wonders if he made a mistake, coming here, and he scuffs his shitty shoes against the irregular pavement, and bows his head. Well, he’s here now, he thinks.

“Jaehyun?”

Jaehyun looks up, his foot stopping mid scuff, a smile forming embarrassingly quick on his face at the sound of that voice. He looks for the face he wants to see, amidst the twenty or so men heading his way.

“Jaehyun!”

He sees him, hair combed back and crazy handsome, smiling bright and breaking into something like a jog. He just looks so happy to see him, makes him melt a little.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, slowing to a stop.

“Food,” Jaehyun says dumbly.

“Food,” Taeyong repeats, and Jaehyun has to laugh at his own stupidity.

“Halmi’s made shrimp and we thought you might like some, so I… brought it… for you,” he says, holding out the box.

“Ooh,” he says. He takes the box from Jaehyun’s hands, sniffs at it a little, and he grins happily. “That smells right, that’s amazing, wow, I’m so hungry, let’s go…”

“Where?” he asks.

“My room, where else?” he says absently, taking another whiff of the curried shrimp and sighing. He looks up. “You’re not eating with me?”

“I… could,” Jaehyun says tentatively. “I just didn’t think you’d… I don’t know.”

“Hmm? Is there rice too?” he says, looking from the box to Jaehyun.

“Uh,” Jaehyun says, and the tail ends of his uncertainty slip into a chuckle. He doesn’t know what he was afraid of. This is still Taeyong, unashamedly calling out to him, shitty lanky blue collar him, even with all his fancy doctor friends, this is still his Taeyong, mind full of curried shrimp and rice. “No, there’s no rice.”

“Okay we’ll pick some up from the canteen,” he says, turning around, almost tripping over a crack in the pavement stone because he’s so preoccupied with trying to carry the box and his books and somehow still feeling for his wallet in his left back pocket.

Jaehyun laughs truer, deeper, and Taeyong looks up at him. Still his Taeyong hyung, still big, pretty eyes and a soft, pretty smile.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing, just give me that before you drop something.”

 

Jaehyun makes sure to shoot the guard an obnoxious smile when Taeyong leads him into the building.

 

Uncle wrote to me,” Taeyong says, sitting cross legged on the floor, his spoon poking at the rice in his bowl. They’ve wound the alarm clock on Taeyong’s desk to ring at 8pm, so Jaehyun would be able to leave in time to catch the last bus home.

“What did he say?” Jaehyun mumbles, his mouth full.

“He’s boycotting the elections,” he says. “He’s begun attending SKLP support rallies around Mokpo.”

Jaehyun snorts, half chokes, has to swallow hard and cough a couple of times before he can breathe again. He’s read about in the papers, sitting cross legged on the bay window in Taeyong’s room. Last year, the report said SKLP protesters were shot to death outside some jail in Jeju. Unrest in Jeju, turmoil in Jeju, shut down by Syngman’s army. He remembers, that first report that said a six year old child was killed.

“You mean Jeju’s SKLP?” he says hoarsely.

Taeyong nods.

“Is he crazy?” Jaehyun says.

“I don’t know what…” he trails off. Jaehyun regards him carefully. He’s chewing slowly, lips closing around another spoonful of rice, and chewing slowly. He sniffs a little, his nose red from the spice.

“He’s right, I mean no one wants these elections, but hyung. They’re this close to butchering the SKLP, tell him to be quiet and print textbooks and mow the lawn or something.”

“I did,” Taeyong says. “I mean. I didn’t tell him to mow the lawn. But I told him not to get in trouble.”

He pauses. “He’s a grown man, he’ll know what’s best, right?”

He’s worried, Jaehyun can see that, he’s frustrated and afraid. He reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. And Taeyong turns to him, big eyed and tight lipped.

“He’ll know what’s best,” Taeyong repeats.

“He’ll be safe,” Jaehyun says, squeezing his shoulder again, and then sliding his arm around him and pulling him close for half a hug. “I mean it’s probably better not to be involved with these things, but I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

Taeyong nods. “Mokpo’s been pretty quiet so far,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun says, pulling him a little closer. “He’ll be safe.”

Taeyong nods again, smiles. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says.

 

Jaehyun picks up the two dirty bowls. “Where do I wash these?” he asks.

“Leave them, I’ll do it,” Taeyong replies, pouring two glasses of water.

“What,” he says blankly.

“What?” Taeyong says, handing him a glass.

Jaehyun just stares at him. That’s too much. Too new to be comfortable with. Yeah, Taeyong used to help him with his chores whenever he could, even the most mundane things like washing the car or hanging up the laundry, he’d be there, carrying the bucket, handing him a rag, holding the ladder down when he’d be up there cleaning the gutters.

This is too new. Taeyong saying he’d wash the dishes he ate in, that’s too strange.

“No,” Jaehyun says. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” says, setting the glass back down on his table.

“It’s weird,” Jaehyun says, shrugging.

“What’s so weird about it?”

“I don’t know, okay? I can do things for you, but you shouldn’t…” he trails off. He’s not sure where he’s going with this. “What am I saying?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Taeyong says, looking at him with one eyebrow raised.

“Look, I’m saying, yeah, you’re my best friend and all, but you’re also Juinnim’s son, and you can’t be going around washing my dishes or just… working while I’m sitting on my ass, Juinnim would have my head,” he rambles.

“Are you planning on telling abeoji? Because I’m not.”

“No, that’s…” he says, and he stops. He frowns.

“What? I’m asking you, if you can fix my sink and wash my clothes, why can’t I do this?” Taeyong says. Jaehyun shrugs, uncomfortable. They’ve never talked about this before. The fact that they’re not equals and they never have been.

“That’s different. I don’t have a choice, hyung,” Jaehyun says. “I’m practically living on your father’s money, so I do what he tells me to.”

“His money, maybe, not mine,” Taeyong says. He’s getting a little agitated, and that’s new for Taeyong.

“Taeyong hyung…” Jaehyun says exasperatedly.

“That’s right, Taeyong hyung. Not Juinnim or Doryeonnim or whatever. I’m your friend, right? You don’t work for me, right?” he says pointedly. “Stop being such a buddy.”

“What?”

“Suddy? Puddy? What was it?”

Jaehyun stares for a second, and then he laughs so hard he snorts. “Fuddy,” he says. “You mean fuddy duddy.”

“Same thing.”

“I… wait. Okay, fine, you wash yours, I’ll wash mine, okay?”

Taeyong glares at him for a short moment.

“Okay?” Jaehyun says again, bumping their shoulders together.

“Okay,” Taeyong says, taking one bowl from his hands.

And it’s settled. You do one, I’ll do one. You wear one glove, I’ll wear the other. Children settling arguments, childish ideas of justice.

 

Taeyong’s standing by his desk, head bowed and shoulders hunched so he wouldn’t hit the cupboard above his head while he ties the cloth around the empty box so Jaehyun could take it back. The alarm clock blares loud and grating, and Taeyong starts, a thud echoing dully in the room. Jaehyun doesn’t mean to, but he snorts at that, at Taeyong raising a hand gingerly to his head and massaging.

“Brat,” Taeyong grumbles, reaching over and turning the alarm off.

“Aw hyung,” Jaehyun says, barely holding his laughter back.

He raises his hand, smiling at the grimace on Taeyong’s face, and he lets his palm rest gently against Taeyong’s hair, at the part he had knocked against the cupboard. He just lets it happen, it just seems natural, to pat his head softly, smoothing his hair down gently as if that would make the pain go away, it seems perfectly natural for them so he does it. He doesn’t think about it, just looks over at the sharp edge of the cupboard built stupidly low, and his hand slips to cup Taeyong’s cheek, and his thumb strokes his cheekbone absently. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s doing something strange till he looks down at Taeyong’s face, and he finds him looking back, blank, dumb.

Blank, dumb, breathing shallow and fast, somehow nervous, somehow uncomfortable. His smile slips a little, his hand slips down to rest against his shoulder. He’s uncomfortable, too, something squirming in his stomach and pulling at the insides of his chest as if it wouldn’t let him breathe.

He should move away, he thinks.

He lifts his hand and steps to the side, squeezes into the space beside Taeyong, fingertips tracing the edge of the cupboard, and he regards it carefully for a moment, at a loss for words.

“That… that seems dangerous,” he says finally.

“Hmm? Right, yeah, I’ll do something about it,” Taeyong says. “Yeah.”

 

 

**Present Day**

They’re about to get out of the van, fumbling to get all their belongings in order. Passports and tickets and neck pillows and bags.

Taeyong looks over at Jaehyun. His hair is a soft golden brown now, piercings glinting in his ears. He smiles. He likes this best, he thinks. More than the red brown he had before, more than the curls, more than… alright maybe black hair suits him best, but there’s something about how soft and pretty he looks like this, that Taeyong can’t get out of his head.

 

There’s something here that they haven’t addressed.

The way they fell asleep talking, in the same bed, in a hotel room in Hanoi, legs hooked together, laughing sleepy and soft. The way Taeyong blushes like an idiot around him. The way Jaehyun gets a little put off, maybe a little jealous when Taeyong gives his attention to other members, and Jaehyun sits sullen and closed off for the rest of the day. They haven’t talked about that one night Taeyong had to sidle up to him quietly and tell him he’s bored, that he wants company, that he wants Jaehyun, and he only softened when Taeyong shivered a little in his thin t shirt and his loose shorts, and Jaehyun sighed and gave him his pajama shirt to warm him up.

They haven’t spoken about all the times Jaehyun’s ears redden when Taeyong does aegyo for him, how he melts and it’s so obvious that he’s melting. They haven’t talked about how ridiculously domestic they are sometimes. Hey, taste this, and Taeyong held a wooden spoon full of dip to Jaehyun’s lips, forgetting for a second that there was a camera taping the whole thing, and the red in Jaehyun’s ears when his lips closed around it could be blamed on the heat of the kitchen, but Taeyong thinks maybe, maybe, it’s because of him. He likes the idea.

“Oi, hyung, go on, get out,” Jaehyun says, jostling him out of the car.

“Sorry,” Taeyong mumbles, gathering his things and stepping out. Jaehyun follows behind.

“What were you thinking about?” Jaehyun says, and even with the mask on his face, Taeyong knows he’s smiling.

“You,” he breathes, so soft, Jaehyun almost misses it. He doesn’t though, he hears it, Taeyong knows he’s heard it because of that lingering look he gives him. Like a gentle ocean embrace.

He hasn’t told him, that his dreams become more and more vivid with every iteration, and they always end with Jaehyun’s smile, Jaehyun’s eyes, his lips, his long fingers linking with his own. Jaehyun and the gentle ocean.

 

 

**1948, Seoul.**

Taeyong’s home for the weekend. It’s been two months since he started college, and the weather’s gone from chilly autumn breezes to a thick layer of snow outside. It’s Sunday evening, and they’re holed up in Taeyong’s room, playing a card game till he’d have to leave.

“Are you cheating?” Taeyong asks, accusatory.

“Cheating? You’re calling me a cheater?” Jaehyun says, mock indignation betrayed by a small smile.

Taeyong scoffs. “You’re so bad at this, I can see the extra cards under you!”

Jaehyun squirms a little so his leg is covering the secret extra cards he was supposed to be sitting on. “What extra cards?” he says innocently.

Taeyong stares at him for a second, disbelief in his eyes. And then he launches himself forward, pushes Jaehyun onto his back, and Jaehyun can’t even defend himself against the smaller, lighter, weaker Taeyong because he’s too surprised, and he falls, a disgraceful sprawl, laughing so hard he tears up. Taeyong’s fingers grapple underneath him, and he pulls out the cards Jaehyun was unsuccessfully hiding, chuckling, climbing over him and sitting on his stomach.

“These extra cards,” he says, slapping a small stack against Jaehyun’s forehead.

“I don’t know where they came from,” Jaehyun says, getting the words out in between chuckles.

He likes that amazed look that comes over Taeyong’s face when he says that, he likes the smile that’s playing on his lips, he likes him when he looks like this, irritated and amused and happy because of Jaehyun’s idiotic antics.

“This is a set up,” he says, hands wrapping around Taeyong’s thighs.

Jaehyun’s stomach fills with butterflies and his heart does a hop skip jump he’s not prepared for when Taeyong laughs lightly and ruffles his hair. He tightens his grip on Taeyong’s thighs, pushes him off, and it’s easy, because he’s so much smaller, he pushes him onto his back and clambers over him.

“Are you framing me hyung?” he asks. “For a crime I didn’t commit?”

“Oh god, shut up,” Taeyong says chuckling. His eyes little crescent moons and and his black hair flopping back, he likes it when his hair is soft like this. Not combed back and professional. He doesn’t know he’s staring. He doesn’t know how dumb he looks. He doesn’t know something’s out of the ordinary till Taeyong’s smile fades into some soft happiness, something that looks like perfect trust, and his pretty eyes are looking up at him now, almost perfectly black in this dim light, and he says, “What are you looking at?”

He shakes his head dumbly. His weight shifts onto one palm, and the other lifts, fingertips brushing stray strands of hair off Taeyong’s forehead, trailing soft down the shell of his ear, and those eyes hold something else now, something glimmering hopeful and fearful, eyelids fluttering shut when Jaehyun’s index trails down the line of his jaw. He turns his head to the side like he’s obeying some unspoken instruction, like the fingertips on his skin are guiding him. His neck is bared now, pale and smooth and speckled with three little black dots just beneath the angle of his jaw. Jaehyun traces them into a triangle, and somehow, he’s leaning down, pressing a small kiss to that skin.

A shivers runs through Taeyong’s body, goosebumps raised in his skin, his chest dips and a breath leaves his lips like a plea and a moan, all the muscles of his neck tightening.

He turns to face Jaehyun again, eyes half lidded, their noses brushing, breath mingling, mouths so close to a kiss, if either of them moves, that would be a kiss and Jaehyun stops, stops it there. He pulls back just enough to lock their gazes together and there’s a truth there that they’ve never dared put into words. It’s in those eyes. Almost black, glimmering with the depth of oceans and the light of the sun, and they’re asking him if he sees the truth, they’re asking if he shares his truth. He straightens up, too shocked to speak, he moves off Taeyong’s body, slow and languid, sits cross legged on the floor with his gaze unfocused on the spaces between the tiles, barely registering Taeyong following all his movements.

They sit there in silence, and then Jaehyun speaks. “Don’t go,” he says.

Taeyong blinks at him, taken aback. “Why not?”

“I’ll miss you,” he says.

Taeyong smiles. “I thought you said…”

“I lied, I miss you,” Jaehyun blurts out. “Like crazy.”

“I miss you too,” Taeyong says softly.

 

Jaehyun stands with Taeyong outside the dormitory. The car is behind him, radiating warmth, and he’s trying to stay as close to it as possible. He turns his collar up, rubs his hands together, blows warm air into cupped palms to warm himself up, but his breath is fogging and it’s too cold, and he does a little jig to stay warm.

Taeyong chuckles. “Go on,” he says. “Get in the car, it’s cold.”

Jaehyun shakes his head idiotically, he doesn’t want to leave yet. Taeyong sighs, stepping forward, pulling his scarf off, dark blue wool, and wrapping it around Jaehyun’s neck.

“You’ll get sick, why aren’t you wearing the big coat?” he asks. His breath is fogging, and the tips of his nose and ears are pink, his cheeks a little ruddy, and Jaehyun can’t help himself when he reaches out and pinches them. “You won’t look like a cuddy, promise.”

Jaehyun chuckles. “Fuddy, hyung,” he says.

“I knew that,” Taeyong says, smiling, his gaze dipping.

“Alright,” Jaehyun says. “Go inside, it’s cold.”

Taeyong shakes his head, and Jaehyun can’t help the way he smiles.

 

 

Jaehyun stares up at his ceiling, and he tries not to think, but he’s thinking. Lee Taeyong is his best friend, his hyung, and they’re good to each other, always, even when the world is unkind to them, they’re kind to each other. That’s what they are.

Even if he stays up nights thinking about him, even if he wakes up in the small hours of morning with the lingering scents from a dream clinging to his skin and he has to fall asleep trying to forget the sound of Taeyong’s voice, even if he looks at Taeyong sometimes and he loses his breath and he finds himself staring dumbly, that’s what they are.

Nothing’s really changed, they’re still kind to each other, he thinks.

 

 

**Present Day**

“Hey hyung,” Jaehyun says, when they’re standing in the long, long lines for security check. “Can you please tell manager hyung I’ll be right back? Need to pee.”

“What? Right now? Can’t you hold it for a bit?” Doyoung says distractedly. He’s trying to figure out how to get past a level of some wooden block game thing he just got. He squints at his phone screen.

“I’ve been holding it for a while,” he says. “It’s kind of reaching national emergency levels right now. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“Aww come on,” Doyoung hisses at his phone.

“Two minutes,” Jaehyun says, breaking from the line and jogging off to the side. The washrooms are a little way down the hall, he saw the sign on the way in and looked away promptly, like thinking about it was making him want to pee more.

 

 

**1948, Seoul.**

“Can I tell you something?” Taeyong says. They’re standing in the park behind Taeyong’s dormitory. Kind of unkempt, deserted as hell in this weather. He’s not too sure why they’re here, why Taeyong asked him to wait ten minutes, just before he had to leave. He looks over at him.

Taeyong’s chin dips and his eyes won’t meet Jaehyun’s.

“Go on,” Jaehyun says. Gentle, soothing, undeniably afraid.

He takes a breath. Jaehyun is waiting for him to say something. He thinks he knows what it is. He thinks it’s something about the way Taeyong wrapped his arms around him that night, before they finally went their separate ways, he thinks it’s about those little kisses, one to those three little dots under his jaw, one to his cheek. He clears his throat, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Hyung, it’s… alright. Whatever it is, it’s okay. It’s okay if you don’t want to say it, too.”

Taeyong laughs nervously, just a short breathy thing. “No, I… God. Alright. I’m just… messed up, Jaehyun. I’m really, I know it, I can pretend I’m like everyone else but I know I’m strange.”

“You’re not…”

“Wait, just let me. Finish. Wait. After mum… everything just turned to shit. My entire life, I’m not complaining, I know that everyone suffers, I know that you’ve suffered, so, so much. But I’m just saying, everything, I felt like… but then you came, and you…”

He stops.

“What I’m trying to say is, you…” he breathes.

He shakes his head. “Forget it, it’s nothing,” he says. “Forget I said anything.”

“It’s alright,” Jaehyun says. He’s toeing at the snow, nervous, making small patterns.

Taeyong looks down, watching him for a moment. He’s breathing unsteadily. He shakes his head again, takes a step back, and he looks afraid, he looks wounded and frustrated, and Jaehyun reaches for him. Both hands curling around his arms, gripping tight.

“Look, you… alright,” he says. “I’ve forgotten.”

“God, I…” Taeyong breathes. He tries to pull away but Jaehyun isn’t letting go. He closes his eyes tight.  “I know, it’s mad, it’s…”

His words get stuck behind his teeth because Jaehyun’s pulling him closer, gentle, slow, he’s holding him, one hand cradling the back of his head. And the seconds tick by, and the world crawls along around them, and that feeling fills him up, the one he found on a beach in Mokpo, that feeling of something big coming their way.

“I get scared sometimes, too, alright?”

He’s not sure what that means, but Taeyong doesn’t ask. He just nods.

“Don’t worry about it, I was just being dumb,” he says.

 

 

**Present Day**

He’s walking back from the washroom when it happens. He can’t shake this uncomfortable feeling, like he’s being watched, some prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He slows down and looks over his shoulder. There’s a man coming closer, and Jaehyun stops in his tracks. Something about the situation runs a shiver down his back and raises goosebumps on his arms. He looks around, the hallway’s empty. He moves again, a little faster than before, and he hears the footsteps behind him picking up speed. He swallows thickly, a little nervous, but he laughs at himself and keeps walking.

“Wait,” the man says. “Sorry, you’ve dropped something.”

Jaehyun stops, laughing at himself for being so jumpy. “Ah sorry, thank you,” he says, turning around, his eyes on the man’s outstretched hand. It’s empty. And that’s when he looks up at his face, recognizes him, that tall, pale guy from all their performances. He’d forgotten about him because they hadn’t seen him around in a while, but now he remembers, those dark eyes, that sallow face.

Jaehyun reaches for his phone frantically, turning around to run, but the man darts forward, his long, pale fingers curling tight around his wrist and whips him around. His body locks up, his eyes widening and his voice stuck in his throat.

He pushes at him with his other hand, trying to break free, but all of a sudden, his chest hurts, his stomach hurts, his head reels and he thinks he’s going to fall. His hands are trembling, all his muscles tight, and his vision starts to blur.

“Stop, listen to me,” the man says. “Stop fighting, fuck... stop!”

Jaehyun looks up, black leaching into the edges of everything he can see, and that thin, pale face is pushing closer. His phone clatters to the ground.

“Please, Jaehyun, please, listen to me,” the stranger begs.

“Who are you?” Jaehyun breathes his arms growing tired, limply pushing against his shoulders till he can’t hold them up anymore and they fall to his side. “What did you do to me?”

“No, please. I’m sorry,” he says, his hands gripping the sides of Jaehyun’s face. “Please, please. Can you just… look at me…”

“Let me go,” Jaehyun says, trying to stay awake. His heart hammering in his ears, his head spinning, taking two staggering steps back. His vision is clouding over, but he sees that face, and he knows that face.

“I have a gun,” the man says.

“Let me go, please,” Jaehyun breathes. He shudders. He’s fucking terrified. He knows he can push this guy off, he’s strong enough, heavy enough, he knows it, but his body won’t move, and he’s barely standing, and he feels so fucking helpless. He doesn’t know why, why is he in so much pain? What did that man do to him?

“I have a gun in my car,” the man whispers. “Please? I can’t live… I can’t live like this… will you shoot me?”

“Fuck,” Jaehyun mumbles, his eyes struggling to focus, stinging. His throat burning. He’s terrified.

“Right here,” the man says, one hand wrapping around Jaehyun’s, pulling forward till his palm is pressed against his chest. He drags it down and to the left, just beneath his ribs. “And here.”

“Joon Jae hyung?” he whispers in a daze.

 

 

**1948, Seoul.**

Jaehyun lays his bedding out absently. It’s only eight thirty or so, but he has nothing to do, so he might as well sleep. Taeyong didn’t come home last weekend, and Jaehyun hasn’t gone to see him after. It’s been about nine days since he last saw him, he thinks.

He slides under his blanket, thinking of their last interaction. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he knows something was on the verge of being unveiled. The truth of their many kindnesses, the truth of their relationship, and he’s afraid of it to say the least.

He knows what they’re dancing around, and it frightens him, and he’s glad Taeyong didn’t say anything.

He closes his eyes.

 

It starts when he smells burning incense, the dream, that experience. He opens his eyes, blinking in the darkness, wondering where the scent is coming from, and it takes a moment to focus on the scene in front of him.

He’s seen this place before, that day, under the maple, by the sea. He’s dreamt of this place, the smell of toil and blood.

A man lies in simple white bedding on a wooden floor, his long hair tied loosely with a strip of cloth, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat, yet the sheets remain pulled up to his shoulders. He looks paler than death, his lips chapped. He knows who it is, like every other dream he’s had for the past months, he knows who it is, and still he’s sure this doesn’t feel like a dream.

Jaehyun blinks again, still unfocused. Someone is speaking.

_We must send him back._

He nods, as if compelled, and his hands press against the sick man’s cheeks. Taeyong. He speaks, and he has no control over what he says.

_Leave us._

He waits, for the sound of the door closing. And then he leans down, presses his lips to damp skin, and he whispers.

_I do not know if you can hear me, my dearest, my love, but fear not. I send you away now with a promise. I will see you again. Do not be afraid, I will see you again, I swear it._

The man remains unmoving, and he feels his eyes sting with tears, his heart hammers heavy and fearful, and he screams inside his head. Taeyong. Hyung. Hyung? He closes his eyes tight, willing himself to wake up, and when he opens his eyes again, Taeyong is in his arms, on a clifftop in Mokpo, a cold wind whipping their hair and clothes, little flecks of snow whirling around them, crimson blooming through the front of his crisp white shirt. He sinks to his knees with Taeyong bleeding crimson.

He starts awake, a pounding ache behind his eyes, and he raises both hands to his head and grips hard. What the fuck, he thinks. A shudder runs through his body. He tries to shake it off and sleep again, but he can’t. He remains awake, shaken, till the alarm clock rings, and he gets up and goes to school.

 

At six fifteen in the evening, he’s on a bus to Sinchon-dong. His heart pounds and his head pounds, it hasn’t let up since that dream. He can’t shake off a singular thought. Every inch of Taeyong’s skin that he dreamt of, he thinks, was exactly right. Every dream, was exactly right. Then that terror that’s possessed him, that must be right, too.

 

  

**Present Day**

“I’m missing one,” Taeyong says, craning his neck. “Where’s Jaehyun?”

Doyoung looks up. “Hmm?” he says. “He’s not back? He’s not back, shit.”

“Where did he go?” Taeyong says, leaving his spot to go closer to Doyoung, a little frightened of that worried lift to Doyoung’s eyebrows.

“To the bathroom, I don’t know, nine levels ago?”

“What does that mean?”

“Fifteen minutes?” Doyoung says. “He went when manager hyung was busy with the whole costume thing. He should have been back by now.”

“I’ll call him,” Taeyong says, picking up his phone and dialing Jaehyun’s number. The call doesn’t go through. He tries again, twice, both times it’s the same. He’s worried now, a small pit in his stomach that’s twisting uncomfortably.

“Which way did he go? That way?” he says, scanning the signs around him till he finds the one pointing him to the restrooms. Doyoung nods.

“Maybe I should check on him?” Taeyong says

                                                                                                                                          

 

**1948, Seoul.**

He’s outside, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself. Wind whips bitter and cold around him. He’s becoming familiar with that mounting fear in his chest.

Taeyong isn’t in his room, the guard hasn’t seen him since some time last night, he said. He shivers, and he ploughs through the snow. He spoke to two boys from Taeyong’s class, too, and they haven’t seen him in even longer than that, they told him Taeyong wasn’t in class, and his room’s locked, and Jaehyun feels that same terror twisting his insides again.

He’s outside, searching the library, the canteen, and now he’s made his way to the small park like area behind the dormitory. It’s snowing again, and he’s a little unsteady on his feet.

He’s about to give up and leave when he sees it, black and unmoving, and he takes a few tentative steps closer, afraid, his muscles locking up. There he is, his lean body lying curled on his side, limbs sprawled at odd angles. Jaehyun’s insides plummet, a faint ringing sound filling his ears. He stumbles forward.

“Hyung?” he says, and it sounds muffled, coming from a distance. He kneels by his side, his hand gripping his shoulder, and he shakes him. “Hyung!”

Taeyong doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, doesn’t blink awake. There’s a dried red brown splatter across the front of his crisp white shirt, black trousers, black coat and the unblemished white of snow.

He can’t breathe, he can’t do anything but tighten his grip, shake him hard. “Hyung… Taeyong hyung? Hyung, wake up, please…”

Nothing. He can feel it, his hands trembling, his throat closing up. Crimson, all he sees is crimson. He shakes his head, shakes the thought away.

“Oh god,” he breathes.

He slips one hand under the backs of Taeyong’s knees, one arm around his back, lifts him up off the ground. His head lolls back, one arm jammed against Jaehyun’s body, one falling like a ragdoll limb, limp, lifeless? No, no, no that can’t be. That can’t be, no. He’s breathing, he’s breathing right?

He didn’t check.

He tightens his hold around Taeyong’s body. Too thin, too sickly for a young man. He’s heavy, yes, but not heavy enough.

He’s out of breath by the time he’s carried him up to the front of his dormitory. Yelling for the guard to open the door, call the doctor, anything.

 

He’s crouching on the floor by the couch in the entryway. That’s where Taeyong is, still unconscious. Unconscious, yes, not dead, he checked the moment the guard opened the door with something between panic and confusion, and he stepped in and placed him down on the cushions, as gently as he could, ungainly anyway. He checked, for the shallow labored breathing and the beating of his heart, and he pulled off his jacket, that same ratty one that Taeyong gave him two years ago, wrapped it tight around Taeyong’s skinny body.

Now he’s sitting there, terrified, his hand stroking through Taeyong’s hair, damp, sticky with melting snow, his freezing skin, and he’s murmuring something, something that sounds like encouragement, like assurance, while the caretaker phones the doctor.

He can hear him, just barely, yes, yes, he’s collapsed, I don’t know what’s wrong, can we bring him to you?

He’s whispering now, hyung, don’t worry, you’ll be alright, and he doesn’t know if that’s true.

Taeyong blinks, slowly, his eyes blink open and Jaehyun stares in shock at the way his eyes roam the ceiling, unfocused, glazed. He leans forward, his hands trembling.

“Hyung?” he says. “Hyung, can you hear me?”

Unfocused eyes are staring at him, and Taeyong is mumbling something.

“Hey! He’s waking up!” he says frantically, getting up on his knees, leaning closer. “What is it, what do you need?”

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong mumbles, trailing off into something incoherent.

“What? What are you…”

“I never meant to…” Taeyong breathes, and Jaehyun watches, horrified, paralyzed, watches tears glazing Taeyong’s eyes. “Don’t be angry with me, don’t be angry, I never meant to leave you all alone.”

“Hey!” Jaehyun calls again, over his shoulder at the hallway at large. He turns back to Taeyong, hands gentle on his skin, cupping his face. “I’m not… hyung, what are you saying?”

“Jaehyun… don’t be upset with me…”

“Hyung please,” he chokes out, terrified of the shudder that passes through his body, terrified of the way his eyes are fluttering closed, unseeing, tired. “Hey, please do something!”

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

It’s the caretaker’s voice, hurrying in with a big blanket, a hot water bottle.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, he keeps talking but he’s not making any sense, do something,” he says wretchedly.

He kneels down beside him. “There’s a stretcher coming to take him up to the hospital.”

He wraps Taeyong up in the blanket, up to his chin, the hot water bottle tucked against his chest. Taeyong shivers, muttering, all the while, muttering, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jaehyun, I’m sorry.

He sits there helplessly for a moment before pressing his hands to Taeyong’s cheeks, warming his freezing skin.

“Why does he keep saying that?” the man mutters.

He shakes his head. He can’t say it.

 

He’s in a hospital bed now, a bottle of something dripping steadily into a thin tube stuck to a needle that’s buried in the back of Taeyong’s hand, and Jaehyun watches it, drip-drip-dripping its way into his veins. He’s wiping at Taeyong’s sweaty skin with a small square of blue cloth. Pressing gently to his forehead, his cheeks, his neck, his chest. He works wordlessly, only now and then pausing to brush Taeyong’s hair out of his eyes, whispering, you’re going to be fine.

He’s asleep now, fast asleep, and he’s thankful. He doesn’t think he could have taken any more of that muttering, mindless muttering.

It’s hypothermia, doctor Hong said. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him. He was probably just dehydrated, maybe stressed, so he passed out outside, and now he’s hypothermic. We’ll take care of him.

He’s going to be fine, right?

It’s… not bad. Not good, but not bad.

The hell does that mean?

He’s showing signs of pneumonia, too… Look, I’ve spoken with his father, we’ll keep him for a couple of days. He can take some time off from classes, get his strength back and then return.

Jaehyun nodded dumbly, and then he phoned the Big House from the hospital office, waited fifteen minutes for the line to go through, and told his grandmother what had happened, in that crackling connection, he said he’d be staying with Taeyong for the night, told her not to worry, it’s not that bad, not bad, but not good. (What does that mean?) I don’t know, halmi. It’s hypothermia. Maybe pneumonia. Something. (What?) Hypothermia, halmi. (Who?) Hypo… halmi, I’m hanging up.

He returned to Taeyong. The lights in the hallways were off, only a few bulbs flickering dimly in eerie silence, eerie darkness, his footsteps echoing on dull cement floors. He sat on a wooden stool next to Taeyong’s white-painted iron bed, blue tinged cotton sheets, dull yellow light filtering through from the hallways outside.

He sits, now, dry eyed and miserable, watching that something drip dripping into his veins, fingernails catching on the peeling paint on the iron stand holding up the iv bottle and line. Every half hour, he checks his temperature, the warmth returns, and then he starts to burn. They told him to sponge him if that happened, call the nurse if the fever gets too high, but it doesn’t. It breaks, and sweat clings to his shirt, damp patches at his armpits, a dull sheen to his skin. He frowns at the few sudden fits of cough that rack his body.

Hours tick by.

Dry eyed and miserable.

Since that first day he went up to his room and made him laugh at his swollen cheek and broken lip, since he first saw the flecks of gold in Taeyong’s eyes in harsh summer sunlight, since he woke up to the smell of seaweed soup and that soft, pretty smile, that soft, pretty smile that sat comfortably on his mouth that day in a shitty, smelly train compartment as if all he needed was to be next to Jaehyun, since that day he held him and pressed kisses to his hair, felt how skinny he really is with every bump of rib and spine he traced with his fingertips, since that day he let him press their mouths together, a broken, hesitant kiss, since their lie began. Taeyong has always taken care of him, and he has taken care of Taeyong, because that’s what they are, good to each other.

How fucking worthless, he thinks. How worthless it would all have been if he let him go like that. Like a dog, dying alone and unnoticed, face down in the dirt and snow.

It was just… like practice, right?

Worthless. Lying and being lied to.

 

 

**Present Day**

Taeyong’s just turned the corner, laughing at something the manager is saying about kids these days and how irresponsible they can be. That’s when he sees it. Jaehyun’s jacket, black and padded, white block letters across the back, his hat, his black leather bag, his broad shoulders, his pale skin.

“Jaehyun?” he says.

He sees someone breaking away from behind Jaehyun, slipping away like a shadow, and Jaehyun crumples to the ground, falls to his hands and knees.

“Hey!” his manager shouts, running after the stranger, and Taeyong stumbles forward, dazed, shocked.

“Oh god, Jaehyun,” he breathes, kneeling beside him, reaching out with a trembling hand to hold him by the shoulder. “Hey, hey what’s wrong?”

Jaehyun stares at the floor, unseeing, woozy, lids dipping, lips parted.

“Can you hear me?” he says, shaking his shoulder. “Jaehyunie?”

He doesn’t move for a moment, and Taeyong panics, his heart pounding, his ears ringing. “Can you hear me? Jaehyun, are you alright?” he says, keeping the panic out of his voice. He checks him quickly, no blood anywhere, he’s breathing fine. He reaches out and presses his hand to Jaehyun’s forehead, his cheek, and then Jaehyun blinks slowly, looks up at him.

“What’s happened?” Taeyong breathes. “Say something?”

“Taeyong hyung,” he whispers, recognition in his eyes, the color returning slowly to his cheeks. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, running his hand gently through his hair. “Can you tell me if you’re okay?”

“I’m alright.”

“Who was that? Did he hurt you?”

Jaehyun shakes his head, leans forward and buries his face against Taeyong’s neck.

“Jaehyun?” Taeyong asks, terrified, unprepared.

“I’m fine,” he replies. “I just… I’m a little confused, hyung. I think… I’m glad you’re here. You’re here, right?”

“I’m here,” Taeyong says, wrapping his arms around Jaehyun, cradling him close.

 

 

When the manager returns, he tells them that he lost the guy. He asks if he needs a hospital, he’s worried, he’s terrified, too, unprepared, too, but Jaehyun’s fine. He’s standing with the others, he’s talking and laughing while Doyoung clings to him apologetically, and he’s telling the story of his brush with the psycho anti with sound effects and background score to boot. He’s fine. Taeyong stands by his side, smiling, relieved that they found him just in time, too afraid to think of what might have happened if he didn’t go looking for him. The managers flit about them, contacting airport security and talking to the higher ups and telling them what happened.

Nobody finds out that Jaehyun was trembling, crumpled against Taeyong’s chest, begging for his hands on his skin and breathing in his scent, being cradled and rocked back and forth gently for a full five minutes before he could even stand.

 

 

**1948, Seoul.**

Jaehyun slips an arm around Taeyong’s back, feels Taeyong’s own arm sliding over his shoulders. He adjusts Taeyong’s arm, curls his hand tightly around his wrist.

“Lift now?” he asks softly.

Taeyong makes a small sound, discomfort, maybe, pain? Fatigue? Jaehyun doesn’t know. He just puts his strength into lifting him out of bed, and he doesn’t look, doesn’t dare to look at the way his legs are dragged limply out from under the covers, the way they almost buckle under Taeyong’s weight when he finally gets him standing.

They’re back home now, now that Taeyong’s woken up and smiled weakly up at him from the hospital bed, brought breath back to Jaehyun’s chest.

I felt really sick, and I was thinking about a lot of things so I thought I’d take a walk and… just a short walk, it wasn’t too cold, Taeyong said. Then all of a sudden, I felt so light headed, I couldn’t stand anymore, and then… yeah. He stared at Jaehyun’s tired face.

Thank you, Jaehyun. For looking for me.

Jaehyun’s tired, frightened face.

I’m sorry if I scared you.

They brought him home five days after that, after a course of iv antibiotics, medicines for his fever, and now he’s so, so weak.

“I can walk,” Taeyong says.

“Hyung,” he says. That’s it, nothing more, but the tone of his voice, the fraught ends of that one word, silences Taeyong. He doesn’t move his arm from Jaehyun’s shoulders, and Jaehyun doesn’t move his from around Taeyong’s waist.

“Walk now?” Jaehyun asks again, and Taeyong nods. Ten quiet steps to the bathroom door, and then four more to the tub. Steam rises from the water’s surface, leaves drops of condensation on the windowpane.

Taeyong withdraws his arm, but Jaehyun doesn’t move. He doesn’t think Taeyong would be standing if it weren’t for the arm wrapped securely around his waist, holding him pressed close to his side.

“I, uh…” Taeyong trails off. He needs to undress.

“Should I just…” he mumbles, his ears burning. “I’ll just…”

He raises his hands to the highest button, and Jaehyun keeps his gaze resolutely on the fogged up window. He can see it out of the corner of his eye, that downward path his hands take, till all the buttons are undone and the shirt hangs loose off his shoulders. He doesn’t look.

That moment’s hesitation, and then his hands return to the drawstring of his pajamas. That quiet rustle of clothes falling to the tiled floor, that awkward shift of his arm so Taeyong can shrug his shirt off, that feeling of fevered, sticky skin stretched over ribs, underneath his palm, when he needs to support him into the tub. He doesn’t look, not at the stretch of naked skin, not at anything but the window, the floor, the edge of the tub, Taeyong’s feet so he wouldn’t trip.

The water sloshes when Taeyong settles down in it, sinks low till he’s chest deep and his head lolls against the tub’s edge.

“You need any help?” he asks.

“No,” Taeyong replies.

“I’ll go, then,” he says.

Taeyong turns to him. Jaehyun can’t quite look at his face. It’s too pale, too sticky from sweat, eyes dull and sunken. Just like his dream, so weak, so easy to break, so easy to lose. But he can’t quite look away, he never can, really.

“Stay?” he breathes.

Jaehyun stands there frozen for a moment. He swallows thickly.

“Stay,” Taeyong says again.

He takes a step forward, sits on the edge of the tub in complete silence, the only sound the gentle lapping of water on Taeyong’s body when he leans forward and reaches for the washcloth. Jaehyun watches him, the smooth curve of his back, the bones underneath his skin, shoulder blades moving when he runs the cloth over his arms, his legs, his chest, the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know how long he stares, keeps his eyes on innocent places, just the stretch of skin above the water’s surface.

“Did you put that stone in my pocket?” Taeyong says.

“Hmm?”

“That night, I wore the coat uncle gave me. For the first time. And I was feeling around in my pocket for a handkerchief and I found this stone. It had my name on it?”

Jaehyun remembers, the flat stone he found on the beach, with Taeyong’s name carved in clumsy hanja across it. He pocketed it, he almost forgot about it, but now he remembers slipping it into Taeyong’s new coat just before they left Mokpo. It was sitting on top of his suitcase, and he just slipped it in when Taeyong wasn’t looking.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun says. “Thought you might like it. You know, you looked so happy when you showed me that pillar, I thought you might like to… take something back with you.”

“Thank you, that was very sweet of you,” Taeyong says, struggling to wash his back. “But I dropped it, when I got all woozy. I’ll look for it as soon as I go back.”

Jaehyun leans forward, one hand on Taeyong’s shoulder, one hand taking the wash cloth from Taeyong’s hand. He shifts a little, and scrubs at Taeyong’s back. Every inch of skin he had dreamed of, exactly right. Taeyong stiffens, but he doesn’t protest.

“Don’t go back,” he says.

Taeyong smiles, his body relaxing a little. He lets Jaehyun bathe him.

“You know what’s funny, I don’t even remember carving that,” he says. “It’s like I just went around carving my name into everything like I’m some king or martyr… I’m such a puddy.”

Jaehyun bites his lip and stifles a laugh. “Fuddy, hyung.”

“I knew that.”

 

 

**Present Day**

Jaehyun is not okay. In the moments before arriving at the venue for MAMA 2016, he’s sitting in the van beside Taeyong, a vise grip around Taeyong’s fingers, staring vacantly out the window.

“Hey, you,” Taeyong whispers to him, somewhere in the streets of Hong Kong, at a noisy intersection with big neon signs, happy and bright in a language he doesn’t understand. Jaehyun turns to him, and Taeyong gives his hand a little squeeze. “You good?”

“I think I’m going to cry,” Jaehyun whispers.

“Don’t be afraid, Jaehyun,” Taeyong says to him, quietly. Jaehyun shakes his head. “We’re all here with you, right? He’s not here. He won’t get to you again.”

“No, I’m not afraid of him,” Jaehyun says.

“What is it, then?”

“You’re here, right?” he whispers.

“I’m right here,” Taeyong says, and Jaehyun nods. Turns back to look out the window.

 

Jaehyun is not okay. He sits there while the MAMA performances continue, while the fans scream and scream, he sits with his thigh pressed against Taeyong’s. He’d hold his hand, too, but he’s afraid of who’s watching. He feels on edge, fragile, like the slightest push would shatter his smile, but having Taeyong close is helping.

Taeyong stands up for something, he’s clapping, he thinks it’s Wiz Khalifa on stage, but Jaehyun is frozen. He needs Taeyong’s skin on his, he needs to feel him close. He feels tears blurring his vision and his head spins. He ducks his head.

Fuck, he thinks, fuck, stop it. Idiot, stop.

He can’t, he’s crying. Taeyong turns around to find his seat before sitting down, and his eyes find Jaehyun’s, and if he weren’t so terrified and miserable and confused, he would have laughed at the shock on Taeyong’s face.

Taeyong steps back wordlessly, to be closer to Jaehyun, and Jaehyun knows he’s trying not to make a scene. Jaehyun clasps his hands together, lets his elbows dig into his thighs and he leans forward. Clears his throat. Taps his foot a couple of times and tries to blink the tears away but god damn it, he can’t stop.

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong is whispering. “I’m right here.”

Jaehyun clenches his teeth.

“Jaehyun,” he says again, his hand slipping into Jaehyuh’s hair briefly, and fuck, it’s like he can breathe again. That hand slides down, from his hair to the side of his neck, a soft, tickling caress against his jaw, and Taeyong’s sitting down.

“I’m right here,” he whispers again.

Jaehyun nods, musters up a watery smile and scrubs at his face with both his palms.

“I’m fine,” he says, but Taeyong’s arm slides over his shoulder, and his fingers drum patterns on his arm, and every time a good song comes on, he does his dumb head bob with his swag pout on his face. He points at Dean, sitting up in front of them, and giggles at his hair, done up in bizarre curls, and he whispers in Jaehyun’s ear, I think our stylist is doing some work on the side, and that draws a small laugh from Jaehyun. He swears that’s the only reason he keeps it together.

His heart calms slowly, slowly with Taeyong by his side. And by the time they go up on stage for their win, and Taeyong turns into a blubbering mess in the middle of his speech, and Mark whispers _called it_ under his breath, he’s grinning wide. He’s reaching over unashamedly and squeezing the back of his neck as if to say, hey, at least now I’m not the only idiot who cried in public.

 

 

 

**1948, Seoul.**

 “You remember that day you came looking for me, at the rally?”

“Hmm, yeah, you were so dramatic that day,” Taeyong says, chuckling lightly and squirming on his pillows. Jaehyun smiles and leans over, plumps them up behind Taeyong’s head.

“I was happy you came, you know that? I was really glad that there was still someone looking out for me. Like family.”

“Of course,” Taeyong says, soft little smile.

“I was worried, though,” Jaehyun says, resting his weight on his hand, the pillow dipping next to Taeyong’s head.

“You didn’t have to be, I was fine,” Taeyong says.

“I was worried anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t… understand it, you don’t know how to belong in places like that,” he says. “They’re shitty and tired and angry and you’re just… soft. You didn’t fit there, with the rest of us. You’re too far above that place, you know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jaehyun regards him carefully for a moment. There’s hushed birdsong outside the window, quiet snow falling, blanketing the estate, the world around them.

“I always thought you were crazy handsome. You are, you know that? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone handsomer than you.”

“That’s not an answer…” Taeyong says. He would have blushed at that, Jaehyun knows, but he’s a little irritated, a little tired, a little too pale to bother blushing.

He smiles.

“Sometimes I’m looking at you, and I’m thinking, god, that _face_ , and then I end up staring, and it’s crazy…” he chuckles. “And then sometimes I’m lying in bed and I should be sleeping, but I’m thinking of what your neck looks like when you lean over to doodle in my book or what your lashes look like or the ink stains on your fingers or what a great clumsy jackass you are or just. Something so mundane. I’m just thinking of you. Keeps me up sometimes.”

“Okay… ” he says, and he’s blushing now. Jaehyun’s smile only softens, his hand lifting to run the backs of his knuckles over Taeyong’s cheek.

His voice softens. “Sometimes I feel like shit. Like the worst kind of shit, because I think of… keeping you with me. The whole thing, clumsy and kind and soft, the whole thing. I want to keep that with me till I die, and I don’t know if I’m allowed to,” he says. “I don’t know, but I worry, that you don’t fit here, with me. That… you and me… that’s not how things are.”

Taeyong shifts a little, tries to sit up but he’s too tired and he makes do with propping himself up a little awkwardly. “How do you mean?” he says. His brows knit. “If you start about your Doryeonnim crap again, Jaehyun we’re going to have words.”

Jaehyun laughs lightly. “I… that’s only a little bit what I mean,” he says. He pauses. He had something else he wanted to say. He blinks down at Taeyong’s confused face. “You look lost.”

“I’m a little lost.”

Jaehyun lets a moment pass, scrambling for words. He was sure he had them all figured out, and now they’re scattering.

“I thought I lost you,” he says softly. “I saw you there on the ground you looked… your arm was sticking out like… there was blood on your shirt. I thought you were gone, it was just… I just thought, for a second…”

“You thought I was gone?” he says, settling back down against the pillows.

He nods. His eyes sting at the memory. It makes him sick, remembering how his body felt against him, no resistance, just limbs, skin and bone and flesh pressed against him.

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong says. He’s softened again.

“I know, that’s dumb.” He shrugs. “I just feel like I have a lot to say.”

“It’s okay. It’s fine, just take a breath.”

“I got a little scared,” he says. He chuckles sheepishly. “When I was taking you to the hospital, when I was holding you, I couldn’t stop thinking, is he going to leave me now? After giving me so much? I thought, he’s been so good, it can’t just end here for him like this. It can’t just be so… fucking. Meaningless. Did he even have everything he wanted? Do everything he wanted to do?”

“Oh,” Taeyong says dumbly.”I…”

“You didn’t, I know. There was something you needed to say, and you never said it, and I never said the things I should have said. I couldn’t shake the thought, fuck, what if you didn’t even know what you mean to me?”

Taeyong is staring at him with wide eyes. “Jaehyun you don’t have to…”

“I do, just listen. Nothing matters to me right now, alright?” he says, shifting a little closer to Taeyong. “Not Joon Jae hyung, not Soohyun, not my grandmother, not your father. I swore to appa and your mother, I swore to the dead that if you came back to me, just for a little bit, just a day, I’d be so fucking good to you. Just a day, so if you ever had to leave me, you could leave happy.”

His voice sounds raw, he knows it.

“It’s the same for me, too, you know? If it was me and not you in the snow, it would have been the same. It would all have meant nothing, because fuck, it’s all so full of shit. It’s so easy to lose. There’s so little time, so who gives a fuck what about what anyone thinks or… I just want to be happy. If I die, I want someone to say it’s alright, he was happy. You know?”

Taeyong reaches over, grips Jaehyun’s wrists with both hands. His eyes are wide, wet, he’s lost, Jaehyun can see it. “Jaehyun, what… what?” he says. “We’re fine, we’re…”

He lets out a shaky breath, and his voice breaks when he speaks again. “I know, I’m saying,” he breathes. “I’m trying to say I don’t want to fucking die, I don’t want you to die, I want to live and be happy. With you. I could be so good to you, and you could be good to me, we’d be happy, you know? I want to keep you with me, I want that to be alright. I just want to live and die with you beside me, when I have no teeth left, and I can’t get it up anymore and I’m too blind to watch Oh Mong Nyeo and I’m too deaf to hear you laugh…”

“Stop, enough,” Taeyong says, his hand gripping the back of Jaehyun’s neck as if to anchor him to reality. His eyes are all Jaehyun can see, imploring, soothing, maybe still a little afraid. “No one’s dying. I’m right here. I’m here with you.”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I’m trying,” Taeyong says, pleading.

Jaehyun takes a breath. Deep and steadying. “Hyung, that day, at the beach,” he says. He feels Taeyong stiffening, his palm shifting awkwardly on the back of his neck. “That day, I know we pretended like it happens, and it’s no big deal, but it doesn’t happen. That doesn’t happen with other boys.”

He’s afraid now, Jaehyun sees it. The quiver of his lips, his lashes, the rise and fall of his adam’s apple when he swallows.

“You’re different,” he says. “You like boys.”

Taeyong’s teeth clench, and his hand slips away from Jaehyun skin, settles against the blankets over his chest. They remain in silence for a few long moments, staring at each other, and he waits for Taeyong to say something, figure out what to say to this.

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong says softly.

“That’s not what… I don’t want that. I just wanted you to say what you had to. It’s just the truth.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong says. He sounds tired. “It is.”

Jaehyun leans forward, his weight on one palm against the pillows. The bed creaks just a bit with the shift of his weight. He brushes Taeyong’s hair off his forehead, tucking a stray strand in place, the gentlest he’s ever been. His eyes burn and his nose burns and he knows he’s going to cry.

“I should say what I need to say, too.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong breathes. Eyes full of fear, tired, pleading. “Just get it over with.”

He lets his fingertips trace the curve of his eyebrow, down over the gentle slope of his cheekbone. He leans in hesitantly, his fingers trailing down to Taeyong’s chin, lifting, and he presses his mouth to Taeyong’s.

One trembling, unmoving moment crawls by, and in the darkness behind his closed eyelids, all he knows is the crack of a heavy, hardbound book over skin and bone, the buzzing, buzzing radio and the thundering feet of a crowd running scared and Taeyong’s voice calling his name, Taeyong’s voice telling him he’s sorry for leaving him. Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun, and all the sounds of a diseased time, a hundred whispered threats, of a future without Taeyong.

He breaks the kiss. His eyes burn and he blinks the tears away and his nose burns and his throat is so tight, but he takes Taeyong’s hand in his, tender, forces the words out.

“Do you understand now?” he breathes. “I’ve been thinking about you. I understood how you felt, and you weren’t feeling it alone, and you mean the fucking world to me, so if you’re ever leaving, you should know…”

Taeyong is gaping at him, shocked out of his mind, but it’s beginning to sink in, Jaehyun sees it, sees the way his eyes are reddening, glimmering with unshed tears.

“Do you mean that?” he asks. Jaehyun doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to.

Taeyong’s hands are pressing cool and smooth against Jaehyun’s cheeks, and he’s leaning up now, his lips ghosting over Jaehyun’s for a moment. “You mean it?” he breathes, and then he’s giving in, claiming his mouth, gentle, slow, their eyes fluttering closed. Soft, chapped, sickly lips, pressed against his, one kiss in a thousand kisses he promises to share with Taeyong, all with the same boy, all wrong, all right, all so different.

Hushed birdsong and snow outside their window, and he can’t breathe. He just slips his heart and soul into this clumsy kiss because he can’t find words that can say what he’s feeling. He presses his lips to Taeyong’s, gentle, unhurried, trembling with everything they’ve held back.

His heart calms, and all he knows in the darkness behind closed lids is the scent of lavender and the butterfly brush of eyelashes against his skin.

“I’ve been thinking of you,” Jaehyun whispers, and he lets Taeyong hold him close.

He thinks it’s the closest it’ll get to saying I’ve fallen in love with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy I'm back. I know, I know, it's like the chapters get longer and longer with every update. I'm sorry lol. On the bright side, it's sort of on its way to the end.  
> Thanks for sticking around, thanks for all the comments and kudos, and let me know what you think!


	11. Not an update

Hey guys. I didn’t really want to talk about it, but in light of everything that’s happened and how it’s affecting everyone, I think I need to say this. I don’t know.

I felt like I couldn’t go through with writing the rest of the story because all of a sudden it felt too real and the thought of writing the character deaths was making me sick. But I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided to go through with it, the way I’d originally planned. I’d understand completely if you don’t want to read this anymore, but this is what I figured.

I’d planned for their past lives to push them closer in this life. That the way their lives panned out in the past just shows them, it doesn’t matter, you can’t run from the way you are, just be together and find happiness. My entire point, writing fanfiction, is to write a world where they can live the way they want and be together if they want, and stay happy. I want to drive that point home.

Spoiler alert or whatever the fuck, but I’m promising you they’ll be together and safe at the end.

I don’t know for sure if Jaeyong just share a close friendship irl and all our shipping is just an attractive fantasy, or if they really are the way we think they are. I want to say either way I’ll stand by them, and I hope you will too. Even if they find someone to date and marry, even if it turns out they’re not all happy charming bumbling pop idols, and they’re actually people with wants and needs and real fucking problems.

I’ll pray to all the gods I don’t even believe in, that they find acceptance and happiness, and never face pointless hatred, never feel cornered into doing something they can’t take back. I hope they find support and strength in their lives, whatever they choose to do. I hope nobody ever forgets that they’re people before they’re artists.

I hope right now, everyone stays strong and safe.

I don’t know, I felt like I needed to say it.


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried lol I know it's not great, but heyyy shady's back tell a friend  
> Seriously though, thank you for sticking around and leaving such wonderful comments you lot are the kindest people in the world <3

**105th year of Joseon, Hanyang**  
The fire crackles by his side, the flickering yellow against the deep blue of his shawl. Night crawls by. Taeyong looks at the letter in his hands carefully. This is the sixth one.  
He unfolds the paper, cheaper, thinner than the ones that came before. His hands are being clumsy, fingertips aching to trace those strokes of black ink, as if brushing through strands of soft black hair, as if touching the tips of long black lashes.  
Jaehyun.

 _Your highness,_  
_I hope this letter finds you well as always._  
_I have traveled long and far with the Sarim masters. Past the rivers of Chuncheon and the peaks of Inje._  
_Tonight, as I write, I am in a small hamlet near Yangyang. It is so terribly cold, I could swear the ink freezes upon the brush even as I write. Still it is serene and beautiful, the people kind and warm. It seems they are content, their harvest full and blessed this past year._  
_The south, I hear, was not so lucky. I hear so much of that familiar southern lilt, and when I speak with them, they tell me there is no work and no food in the south…_

Taeyong reads every word, slow, as if learning a sacred text. It is nothing, not poetry, not a love song, it is nothing but an account of Jaehyun’s travels, his learnings, his understanding of Joseon. It is nothing but the report of a wandering Seonbi, a Sarim scholar teaching a royal about his kingdom.  
I have sent you a small gift, your highness, something humble from my travels, something foolish from a lowly scholar. I hope it reaches you safe.  
Taeyong puts the letter down, three pages of neat, small hanja, and begins to unwrap the parcel that came with it. It has already been checked by the guards for anything that could be a danger to him, the cloth and hay clumsily replaced before being handed to him this evening.  
It has been almost a year since he last saw Jaehyun.  
Last winter, when Soohyun’s hand was placed in his, and they promised to be wedded until death before her family shrine, he thought Jaehyun would not come, but he was there.  
Last winter, when King Seongjeong passed in the dead of night, in a fitful sleep, quilts soaked in urine, his wives and his sons kneeling solemnly around him. He thought Jaehyun would not come, but he came. he said nothing, only held his hands between his own two palms behind the closed doors of his chambers, until the tea went cold.  
Last winter, the day after the palace ceased to mourn the loss of his father, when Yeonsangun strode into the halls of Seonggyungwan with all his whores behind him. When the scholars were chased from those holy grounds, humiliated. That was the last time he saw him.  
Trembling with rage and humiliation, _this is not the way_ , he said, _bedding his whores in the halls of Seonggyungwan. This is not the way of a king, this is not the way of any good man._  
He remembers it so clearly, even as he looks at the beautiful najeon chilgi box in his hands, the soft iridescent gleam of mother-of-pearl against dark wood, he remembers the day Jaehyun told him he would leave Hanyang.  
Hyungnim, I cannot live another day doing nothing while this monster sits upon the throne.  
Taeyong stayed silent for the longest moment, tried to find words he would be allowed to say, catching the coattails of things like you are leaving me, then? When will I see you again?  
Instead, he settled on something bland. _I will pray for you, may your travels be blessed._  
Jaehyun thanked him, took his blessing, left Hanyang the very next day. Broad shouldered, pale, Taeyong does not know what he looks like today, has not heard his voice, only imagined it whispering the words he weaves between the ink on these pages.

  
Taeyong only ever writes with bad news these days, like he is recording history, bland and concise:  
Jaehyun, Prince Musan has passed in his sleep.  
Jaehyun, Prince Gyesong has drowned in his bath.  
Jaehyun, your uncle has left us, murdered in the north by those brutes.  
Signed, Prince Yi Taeyong.

 _(My love, there is death in Hanyang, the terrible wrath of death, at all our ankles and all our throats, and perhaps my death is next, yet your name is in all my prayers, you stay away, stay safe, dearest, write again. Still yours, Taeyong.)_  
On those days, Jaehyun writes back with a poem, grief and comfort woven in the ink on his pages.

“Your highness.”  
Taeyong starts and looks up. Soohyun stands there, shivering, an attendant by her side.  
“Why are you out here in the cold?” He says.  
“Will you not come in for dinner?” She asks.  
“Am I late?”  
“You are,” she says with another small shiver.  
He smiles, unwraps his shawl from around his shoulders, passes it to her. “I apologise, sweet girl,” he says. “I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

 

He places his chopsticks down and bows to his wife.  
“Thank you for this wonderful meal,” he says. Soohyun smiles, rising to scurry back to to chamber, but Taeyong speaks.  
“May I visit you tonight?” He asks quietly, still loud enough for the maids to hear.  
“Of course you may,” she says cheekily. “Are you not my husband?”  
He chuckles. “Only the gods should know,” he says.  
“Give me a moment, your highness,” she says. “I will prepare for you.”  
He nods, retires to his study to wait for her.  
They both know he only visits her chamber at night to sleep in spare bedding on the floor. They both know it, but nobody else needs to, and so the act unfolds, every other night, he is a husband smitten by his young wife’s beauty, and he spends the night with her.  
It keeps the whispers at bay for now, the prying, prodding, goading that poor girl has to face. Have you bled again this month, then? Should you not be with child? Try harder, drink this, turn your mattress to face east. Perhaps it was that fever you had in your childhood, I know a girl who had a fever once, never could conceive again.  
Her mother once tried to have a physician look at her, to see if she was ill in some way, if her organs were alright, and she came to him, terrified of what would happen if they saw that they had never consummated their marriage. He went to his in-laws in a trembling rage and said he would never let another man look at his wife, and they never brought it up again. Somehow Jaehyun’s mother learnt of this, and she wrote to Soohyun from Gongju. Somehow she knew the truth of what had happened, and she told Soohyun not to be afraid, that she would protect her for as long as she needed.  
Some nights they laugh about it quietly, and she whispers and giggles into the night till she has tears in her eyes and she yawns and falls asleep. Some nights she cries, these old hags are so full of meanness orabeoni, have they nothing to do? I miss my father, orabeoni, I miss him so terribly. And he soothes her with a gentle hand patting her back till she yawns and falls asleep.  
Tonight will be a laughing night, he thinks with a smile when he remembers that cheeky little grin on her face. That darling girl.  
Before he told Jaehyun of his betrothal, he stood with Soohyun in the minister’s garden, a servant watching them from a distance, and he told her he could not marry her. That he had been selfish and unthinking, and he could not marry her because he could never be a husband to her, never love her the way she deserved, because he belonged to someone else.  
She looked at him long and hard and told him he really was despicable, told him she would marry him either way. She knew him to be good and kind, she said, she knew his mother, too, her freedom and intellect and bravery. If he broke this wedding, then no one else would marry her, and they would send her off to some old man she had never met, and she would be crushed like an insect in his home, quiet, like a little mouse in the inner rooms of an old man’s house.  
She said she never asked for love, never asked for marriage, but she had no choice, and she knew he had none either. That day he swore to her that she could read and sing and dance if she wanted to, that no one in his household would ever dare to stop her, and she swore she would never love him, never ask for his love because he will always belong to someone else.  
That’s right, he thinks. He places his hands on the small stack of Jaehyun’s letters sitting on his desk. He closes his eyes, and he can almost see Jaehyun’s face again, in the pale light of dawn, almost feel his skin beneath his fingertips, his hair when Taeyong ran his fingers through, combed it, tied it back in place after they made love.  
There’s a knock on his door, and an attendant speaks.  
“The lady is ready, your highness.”  
That’s right, he will always belong to someone else.

 

The ministers stand in deep red robes, solemn, on either side of him. Their shadows are strangely distorted by the light filtering through the screen windows. The air seems heavy. Taeyong’s skin crawls. He doesn’t know what to expect.  
For the first time since Yeonsangun took the throne, Taeyong received a message early in the morning that he would be expected to be present in the ministers’ court. He knew better than to perceive it as a gesture of goodwill from a king to a prince, an offer of cooperation. He knows better, standing here in the thick silence of the hall, right before the king himself, staring up at the hardness in Yeonsangun’s eyes, he knows there is nothing here but danger.  
“Your majesty,” he says, bowing low.  
“Prince Taeyong,” the king says, nodding in acknowledgment. “You must be wondering why your presence was required here.”  
“Yes, your majesty,” he replies, straightening up. He tries his best to gauge his intentions, summoning him here after the death of the minister, the one man standing between him and the king’s thirst for his blood.  
“I have heard a great deal about your proficiency in military strategy, and a great deal more about your skill with a sword.”  
“I am not worthy of your praise,” he says, bowing low again.  
“It is not empty praise, brother, every one of my words and deeds is measured,” he says. “You must have heard of the unrest in the southern territories.”  
“In brief, yes.”  
“Truly disturbing, the reports of violence, the commoners against the yangban of the area, quite unsettling. We have just received word that one of the ministers of the area, the Lord Bae Kyung Soo has been murdered in his sleep by the rebelling slave filth. The ministers and I have discussed this matter at great length, and have spared no effort in arriving at a solution for this pestilence.”  
“The only thing finer than your majesty’s brow is your intellect, of course,” Taeyong remarks dryly.  
“Of course,” Yeonsangun says. “We have arrived at the conclusion that Hanyang’s presence must be felt in the south, to hearten the yangban and silence the uprisings. And what better embodies that presence than the royal family?”  
Taeyong stiffens. It begins to dawn on him, the reason he was called here. After the death of his father, in the absence of the minister, when there would be none to defy Yeonsangun, none to protect him.  
“I could not argue,” he says warily.  
“And who better to represent the royal family than the golden prince himself?” he sneers.  
“I could not aspire to…” he begins weakly.  
“Do not be modest brother,” Yesonsangun says. “I have heard so, so much. You shine, they say. Everywhere you go, the training grounds, the libraries, the piss ridden alleys with your pet street urchins. I have heard it all.”  
He stares up at Yeonsangun. Scarlet dragon robe against his scarlet throne, five steps above the ground, callously draped over the gilded wood, he is a snake with a crown on its head. He does not belong there, no.  
Someone speaks, and it echoes, a solitary voice in the vast hall.  
“Your majesty, it is my belief that he is inexperienced yet, and we cannot risk inexperience in the handling of the southern territories.”  
Yeonsangun hisses, sits up straight.  
“Inexperienced? You accuse him of incompetence? You dare insult my family?”  
“I do not mean insult, your majesty, I simply mean…”  
Taeyong turns to the minister who is speaking. A man of the three offices. Sarim, taught by the same master who taught Jaehyun’s father and uncle. He is grateful for him.  
“You dare insult my brother? The royal blood of Joseon?”  
“Your majesty, if I may speak…”  
“You may not,” Yeonsangun bellows.  
“Minister,” Taeyong says. He holds the old man’s gaze for a long moment. I am grateful for you, but I will not have an innocent man punished for protecting me. “I thank you for your concerns. However, the king has spoken, and I must obey my king. I assure you, no effort will be spared in placating the south.”  
“Our golden prince speaks,” Yeonsangun says. “And you, minister, another word and you will be charged with disloyalty to the crown.”  
The old man bows.  
“Forgive me, your majesty, I was mistaken,” he says. “Your brother is brave and worthy.”

 

She scoffs. “Spineless,” she says. She is sitting before him with her hands in two tight fists on the table top. “He is a coward. They are all cowards. Not a word to say when your father was king.”  
“And my father is no longer king, mother.”  
“Stop that,” she says. “He may not be, but you will return to me, glorious, you will return a king.”  
“Mother,” he begins, but he stumbles on the words that should follow.  
He has maintained for the past week that he is off to the south to do something heroic and valiant for his kingdom. He believes in trying, he still believes he can help. He has already helped the people of Joseon, he has built a sizeable network of families to support charitable acts in and around Hanyang, growing at a snail’s pace, but growing nonetheless. And now he has a taste for it, he wants more.  
But he knows that is not what this move is about. He is not being sent South for his merit, he is being sent away to meet his end in the south, the same way Soohyun’s father met his in the North. He knows, because he is being sent with no support, no guards, not a single armed man. Two servants to tend to his needs on the journey, and the promise of a loyal local army provided by the lords of the south. That is all.  
“What?” she says. “What is it?”  
He looks away, tired. He has told his wife. She has cried and begged him not to leave. He tried to explain to her that he could not help it, that he cares for her greatly, that he will try his best to return for her. She clung to him every night for the past week, afraid for him, unwilling to lose another man she cares for.  
His mother has tried everything. Asked for an audience with the noblemen to contest this injustice, but the cowards closed their doors, and the kind let her in and said they feared for their lives, and they were kind cowards.  
He has not told Jaehyun yet. He has written the letter. A stark explanation of where he is to go and why. More bad news. He makes no mention of anything more. He has not sent it.  
A gentle hand on his breaks him out of his reverie.  
“My son,” his mother says, tightening her fingers around his. “My darling son, you will return to me.”  
“Mother,” he says again. “I think I am afraid.”  
“I am not,” she replies. “My glorious king.”

 

The evening passes slowly. His things have been packed and placed in two neat bundles in his study. He is to leave early tomorrow morning. He counts the passing moments and from his garden, he watches the moon climb higher in the sky.  
He wrote another letter. It runs two and a half pages long, took him three tries before he sighed and gave up, folded it and slipped it into an unaddressed envelope.  
Bad news, my love.  
A quiet cough sounds from behind him. He turns.  
“Your highness.”  
“Choi Jin,” Taeyong says. “Goodness you took your time coming here.”  
“Forgive me your highness, but a guest arrived…”  
“A guest?” Taeyong says. “No matter, I must speak with you first. I have a letter…”  
His fingers tighten momentarily on the silk-covered folded pages, and then relax immediately as if afraid of destroying the words he poured his life into. He holds it out tentatively.  
“Your highness, he is waiting…”  
“Never mind him Choi Jin, this is important. If I… if something were to happen…” he trails off. “If you could find Jaehyun for me, give this to him.”  
“You may find him in the foyer,” Choi Jin says.  
“Pardon me?”  
“Our guest,” the young eunuch says. “Is waiting for you past that door, your highness. Master Jung is here.”  
Taeyong’s fingers clutch at the letter. It crumples in his grip. His brows knit together, breath coming thick. He does not understand.  
“No,” he breathes. “How?”  
“I do not know,” Choi Jin says. “I do not know, my prince, perhaps the gods have heard your prayers.”  
“Is he well? Does he look well?”  
“See for yourself, go to him,” Choi Jin says. “Go to him, the gods have brought him to you.”

He tightens his robes around him, pretending as if the cold is the reason his body is trembling so. The letter has been folded and put back into his robes. It sits heavy, carries the weight of his love. Perhaps that is why his feet cannot carry him fast enough. He slides the screen door back, and there he is.  
Is he taller than before? He is thinner, his face sharper. His robes are fading, the same deep blue he wore when he left. He stands tall, regarding him carefully, and perhaps the same thoughts are going through his mind, perhaps he should say something now, but Taeyong is frozen where he stands, one hand on the door, one hand braced on the doorframe.  
“I have come back for you,” Jaehyun says. His voice is still the same, that rich, beautiful thing, that childish lilt when he bares his vulnerable heart.  
Taeyong remains wordless. Watches quietly, as Jaehyun takes a hesitant step forward. Another, and another, surer than the last, till his hands are on Taeyong’s waist, surer still, till Taeyong is held in his arms.  
“I have come back for you,” he whispers.  
Taeyong remembers to breathe again, and it comes thicker than before, ragged, burning his throat like every breath is punishment.  
“The gods have heard my prayers,” he breathes. His arms wrap tight around Jaehyun’s waist. “I wished to see you once, just a glimpse. Heaven above, I do not have enough time, I… how have you been? What brings you back, you never said you would come…”  
“You cannot go,” Jaehyun replies quietly. He grips Taeyong’s arms tight, as if afraid he would disappear in an instant. “That is why I have come back. He is sending you there expecting ashes to return, I cannot let you go.”  
“Jaehyun,” Taeyong says. He breaks their embrace. “Who told you? Don’t do this, I must go, I cannot disobey the king’s wishes.”  
“Perhaps he can be reasoned with,” Jaehyun says. He sounds frantic.

Taeyong gathers himself.  
“He is being kind to me already. You must… must not fear. He has not killed me, he is only sending me South.”  
“Hyungnim, do not lie to me again.”  
“So many are dead, Jaehyun, if he had to kill me, too, he would have done it.”  
“If there is no threat to your life, you would not mind if I went with you?”  
“Jaehyun,” Taeyong says. It’s a warning, to stop speaking like this.  
“Listen to him.”  
Taeyong stiffens at the sound of his mother’s voice coming from behind him. He turns, desperate.  
“Mother,” he says. “Speak with him, please, tell him to see sense.”  
“I am coming with you, hyungnim stop arguing.”  
“Jaehyun, stop, I will not ask that of you,” he says firmly.  
“You need not, I will. And I did, that is why he is here today,” she says.  
“Mother no, how can you… how could you?”  
“I am grateful she did,” Jaehyun says. He is hurt and angry, and this is not what Taeyong wanted. “You would have left, you would have gone without so much as a letter, how could you?”  
“Enough, Jaehyun, go back,” he says. “Go home, please, I beg of you. And you, mother, I cannot believe you could…”  
“Do not think I am unaware of my selfishness, but I cannot help it, I cannot send you alone. Jaehyun, forgive me for asking this of you, but he is your brother and you must take care of each other. You must, Jaehyun,” she says. “When all this is over, you will be on the right side of things.”  
“Neither of you need ask,” he says decisively. “I am going with you.”

 

Taeyong is standing in the flickering darkness of Jaehyun’s chamber. He could not speak with him further, his mother and his wife remaining by their side for the remainder of the night. His only choice was to follow Jaehyun to his chamber when he retired after dinner. And now he watches him preparing for bed as if nothing is wrong.  
“Have you lost your mind?” He breathes.  
“Why must you argue with me so?”  
“Why? It is not safe for you!”  
“Then is it safe for you to go alone?” He challenges.  
Taeyong takes a minute. Jaehyun is no fool. He knows, does he not, that the dead princes had no wealth and no name, no favour amidst the people of Joseon, and their deaths were quiet. If he were to die their deaths, poisoned in his sleep, drowned in his bath, there would be outrage. He is being sent away, so that he may be disposed of in the southern territories, a noble prince, dying for his kingdom, the people would mourn, but they would not question.  
“I have no choice, but you do, Jaehyun. You can stay here, finish your studies, you can keep doing good here, you have already done so much,” Taeyong says.  
Jaehyun stops what he’s doing, sewing together loose sheets of paper filled with his handwriting. He puts the pages down.  
“You speak as if you are awaiting death,” he says.  
“Perhaps I have good reason, you stubborn child. It is not as though I have not considered it, I have thought of it, what if I just ran away with you? And then I remember, I remember what it means to disobey the king, I think of my mother, your parents, I think where could we go that he cannot find us? Nowhere, I am in the king’s palm, Joseon is in the palm of our glorious king, and I must go through with this. You need not,” he finishes.  
“I need not?” Jaehyun says. He is getting to his feet now, coming closer. He is watching him carefully.  
“Can you not see?” Jaehyun breathes. “I cannot let you go alone. If you must face danger, I will be by your side. I promised you that, I promised I would protect you.”  
“Promised me?” He asks quietly. “Your promise means nothing. You are throwing your life away for nothing.”  
“For you,” Jaehyun says, resolute. “I am laying my life at your feet, for you, for everything I said to you. I told you I am in love with you, and that does not… that will always mean something. I told you, you have my whole heart, I told you I would live my life like that, did you think I was just being a stubborn child?”  
He has never seen him so serious. Hurt, yes, Taeyong knows he broke his heart when he married Soohyun. This is new, this is something different from that childish love he confessed to so long ago, this is tempered with experience, with pain, with a deeper understanding of living.  
But does he know, he thinks, what he is sacrificing? This fool, does he know?  
“No, I…”  
“I am coming with you. If we must be hurt, if we must die, we will die together.”  
“You have lost your mind,” Taeyong says. “What of your family?”  
“They will understand. They will laud the choice I have made. You swore your life to me and I swore mine to you, and there is honor in that. If I died for you, they would know that there was honor in me.”  
He knows, he realises. He knows, and he does not care.  
“Jaehyun, please, stay here. Be safe, my dearest, just stay here…” he tries.  
“Your dearest,” Jaehyun breathes. “Your love, that is who I am. Do you remember now?”  
He is defeated, he is brought to his knees before Jaehyun’s beauty once again, he can try and pretend as if there is no love between them anymore, nothing worth dying for, but there is nothing left to say.  
“How long will you live by those wretched memories?” He whispers.  
“How long will you refuse to touch your wife?”  
And there is nothing left for him to say.

 

 **1948, Seoul**  
It’s not as if much has changed, he thinks. He’s sitting in an armchair by his window, watching the snow fall outside. Halmeoni has given him a cup of some warm milky concoction to help his stomach. His fever medicine has been giving him a stomachache that even that disgusting blue bottle of milk of magnesia hasn’t been able to cure.  
Jaehyun’s been acting fine. Maybe he nags a little now in this oddly endearing way, like he’s just found out he can do that, and Taeyong thinks it’s the cutest thing. But fine, really. They haven’t spoken about it again. And nothing’s happened since. It’s not like he’s hoping, but it wouldn’t hurt if maybe they kissed again. Or just held hands or something, he’d be fine with that. He thinks maybe somehow, somehow that would silence that irritating niggling, gnawing feeling in his chest that they’ve gone and done something awful and crossed a line that should never have been crossed.  
There’s an impatient knock on his door, and he hears the creak of the door opening even before he can say come in.  
“Hey, you ready?”  
“Yes, yep, I just need to finish this,” he says. His body has stiffened at the sound of Jaehyun’s voice, but he doesn’t turn around or look up, he’s been finding that a little difficult to do, meeting Jaehyun’s eyes. Especially today, since he’s going back to his dormitory, and he’s stepping out of this warm little bubble they’ve been in, and maybe that warrants some kind of goodbye, some kind of affirmation that everything that happened really happened, and maybe he has something new to look forward to the next time he comes home. He already knows the back of his neck is warming.  
“Oh, sure, alright,” Jaehyun says. “Should I wait downstairs?”  
“No, I’m almost done, it’s just,” he says, taking another sip. He grimaces. “Unpleasant.”  
Jaehyun chuckles somewhere behind him. “That’s one way of putting it,” he says. He can hear him picking up Taeyong’s bags.  
“I can take them,” he protests.  
“Hyung, shut up,” Jaehyun says flatly. “I’ll go put these in the car, you drink your cat vomit.”  
He grins, tips his head and knocks it back. His face twists all by itself, despite his best intentions, and Jaehyun’s laughing at him again. He gets to his feet.  
“I’m all done now, give me it,” he says, his hand outstretched, waiting for the leather suitcase to be handed to him. He can hear him coming closer, but he hasn’t looked up at him yet. He’s just looking very intently at some invisible speck of dirt on his own trousers, one hand awkwardly dusting it away, busying itself with gathering his coat when he realises there couldn’t possibly be any dust left there.  
He doesn’t expect to hear the click of the door closing, or the curtains being drawn shut, the light suddenly cutting out to leave them in stuffy half dark. He pauses, and the rough knit of Jaehyun’s black coat is slipping into his line of sight, one cold hand closing hesitantly around his arm. It looks up curiously.  
Oh, he thinks. There’s that beautiful young face looking back at him, pale, and light brown eyes, and lacy black lashes and he looks so uncertain and big eyed and serious, and oh, he’s gotten so tall.  
I’ve gone and done it now, he thinks, even as his ears warm.  
He tries to look away quickly, before he can blush and make all this any stranger than it already is. He’s dipping his head again, but that’s a mistake. Taeyong gets the message too late, that he’s seen that look in his eyes before, that that hand is trying to pull him closer, and oh, he’s made a mistake. By the time he tries to stop and look up again so Jaehyun can go ahead and do what he wanted to do, go ahead and kiss him, they end up with Jaehyun’s chin knocking painfully against Taeyong’s cheekbone, so hard he feels his teeth rattle.  
He’s confused for a second. “Oh,” he says stupidly. A little more breathless than he thought he’d be.  
He finally looks up for real, and Jaehyun’s flushed to his ears, his eyes screwed shut, his face locked in a grimace, and Taeyong can’t stifle a laugh.  
“What was that?”  
“Nothing. I don’t know,” Jaehyun mumbles. He’s slinking away, his grimace slipping into a sheepish grin, the tips of his ears burning red, and he’s picking up the suitcase again, turning away.  
“Jaehyun?”  
“Let’s go, hyung, you’re getting late.”  
Taeyong has to bite his lip to keep a laugh down. “Idiot wait,” he says, all in a rush, all jumbled together and woven in a laugh, and Jaehyun’s pausing by the door.  
He’s not sure where he gets the courage to do what he does, maybe it’s this stuffy half dark, just like the places in his mind where he nurtured this feeling all these years, but he’s the one who bridges the gap between them, hands cupping Jaehyun’s cheeks, still hesitant, lips pressing against his gently, like a question, are you sure you want this?  
Like an answer, there are hands on his waist, squeezing, but too unsure to move, willing, but afraid.  
That’s alright. He’s afraid too. He’s so afraid, he’s stuck on an inhale, stuck even when Jaehyun presses a little closer, their kiss a little deeper, stuck till his lungs burn and he breaks the kiss with one long ragged breath slipping from his lips.  
This time Jaehyun laughs.


	13. Twelve

**1948, Seoul**

  
“Ow!”

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” Taeyong chuckles.

“Hyung, are you sure about this?” Jaehyun asks.

“Jaehyun, I’ve been doing this to myself for the past year, what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid, who said I was afraid,” he grumbles, stretching his neck out for Taeyong. The blade is glinting ominously in Taeyong’s hand, and all he can think of is all the times Taeyong has tripped or dropped things or knocked his elbows on doorknobs and damn it the razor is getting too close. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“When I said don’t move, I didn’t mean don’t breathe,” Taeyong whispers.

“Right,” he says, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Taeyong’s laughing again, his kindly older brother laugh, and it’s got his face heating up. The edge of the blade is on his skin now and he’s holding his breath again, sliding down cold and sharp and oof there it goes down his neck.

He’s still alive.

“Not so bad?” Taeyong says, wiping off the blade.

He opens his eyes. Taeyong is close, smiling up at him, amused, armed with his razor and paused mid shave.

“It wasn’t the worst,” he says.

Taeyong grins and returns to his job. Your first shave, he said yesterday, that’s an event, that’s you becoming a man. I’ll show you how it’s done, and we have to get you a razor and a brush and some shaving cream and alum and -

And here they are. Jaehyun gingerly pulling a horse face while Taeyong patiently shaves his top lip.

“Done,” Taeyong says.

He opens his eyes, and Taeyong’s pressing a small towel to his face gently, wiping off flecks of lather from his earlobes and temples.

“Still alive, huh?” Taeyong teases.

“Barely,” Jaehyun says. He’s studying Taeyong’s face. Usually when they’re this close, they have their eyes closed, lips pressed together, hands sliding into hair or drawing circles on hips. It’s not often he gets to stare like this. His pretty, pretty smile, even prettier when he’s playful.

There’s a pungent smell in the air now, Taeyong’s hands are patting something cold onto his cheeks and god damn it that stings -

“Ooh, shit, ow,” he mutters, squirming, broken out of his pleasant day dream. “Ow, hyung what the hell?”

“It’s just aftershave, you big baby,” Taeyong chuckles, fingertips settling against his jaw. “A man needs aftershave.”

He pauses and looks at him for a long moment.

“You look very handsome,” he concludes. The smile just dances somewhere in his eyes now, and Jaehyun can see the moment of hesitation, that moment of maybe I shouldn’t, somewhere in the set of his mouth. He’s about to withdraw his hands, but Jaehyun won’t let him.

Instead, he leans in, presses a quick peck to Taeyong’s lips, relishes the small surprised sound he makes. He took his chance.

Taeyong’s smiling now, looking away with a chuckle. It’s always like this. He doesn’t know why, but right up until the moment they kiss, they’re still dancing around each other, still wondering if it’s okay, still, after months passed and the season changed.

They’re happy best friends till one of them leans too close, or Taeyong wears the nice cologne, or Jaehyun parts his hair this way instead of that, or the clouds are pretty today, or something, and they’re caught wanting, and something gives.

Just like now, Taeyong’s just handsome and close and his hands feel ticklish on his skin, and something gives, and he’s gone and pressed their mouths together again helplessly. He likes the tickle in his stomach, the squeeze of his insides when he has Taeyong backed up against the tiled wall, palm pressed against the cool white tile, the bitter taste of aftershave from his skin to Taeyong’s lips to his own lips and on his tongue, two halves of a full circle, he doesn’t know where he ends and Taeyong begins. Taeyong’s hands hesitantly take fistfuls of Jaehyun’s shirt collar, tugging him closer, and Jaehyun’s sinking softly against him, breathless when the tips of their noses brush, feverish when Taeyong’s mouth is left glistening in his wake.

He knows Taeyong will stop soon. Put his hand up against Jaehyun’s chest, push him away ever so slightly but that’s always enough to break the kiss. He’s waiting, but it doesn’t come. Instead there’s a soft sigh, and he’s still tugging at his collar, he’s caught wanting, and god that sits heavy inside Jaehyun, Taeyong wants more, Taeyong wants him. So he pulls him closer by the hips, bodies pressed together, and now he feels his want in more ways than one, and that does it.

The hand on his chest, the push. The moment broken.

Taeyong releases a quiet, shuddering breath, pushes a little more at his chest till he steps back, and then he slips away from him. It’s not that he doesn’t like what they’re doing, Jaehyun knows that, his flushed skin and that soft sigh of moments ago give him away.

But he always stops him before it can go any further.

Maybe Jaehyun’s a little thankful for that, for keeping them here, perched between innocence and guilt.

“How did you like the shave?” He says, emptying foamy water into the sink and rinsing out the mug.

“The shave,” Jaehyun says. “Was great. Looks great. I look good.”

“You’re welcome, you ungrateful brat,” Taeyong chuckles.

“Hey, you didn’t make this face happen, that was God’s work,” Jaehyun says pointedly, unprepared for the splash of water Taeyong flicks at his face.

 

 

 

**Present Day, Chiangmai**

“Can I tell you something?” Taeyong says.

“Sure, what’s up?” Jaehyun says. He has some weird feeling in his chest, like this has happened before.

“I guess, um. I just wanted to ask you? Uh, you and me, do you think…” he pauses.

“Yeah?” Jaehyun says softly. He doesn’t know if Taeyong is saying what he thinks he’s saying, and he doesn’t dare hope.

“…it’s nothing. Nothing, never mind.”

“Hyung,” Jaehyun says. “You can tell me anything.”

“What if it fucks everything up?”

“It won’t,” he says, shaking the déjà vu off. “It’s just me, you can tell me.”

“I just wanted you to know… you know?” Taeyong fumbles. “I like… gay. What. The fuck did I just say.”

He chuckles. “I mean, I like men… I’m gay, you know that right?”

“Uh.”

“Sorry, was that a lot… to process? I just thought you guys knew. Or assumed. I don’t know, I’m sorry, did I make things weird?”

“No! No, I just. No.”

“Well. Um. I just wanted to tell you. That.”

“That’s it?” he says. “No, I don’t mean like, huh, was that it. I know that must have been difficult for you to say. I just mean… is there anything else you want to talk about?”

“I, well, yes. No.”

“There is?” Jaehyun says. He cringes a little at how eager that sounded.  
Taeyong laughs lightly, nervously. “I don’t know, Jaehyun. I don’t know if you… want to hear it, or if I’m just being selfish or I’m being presumptuous. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Jaehyun says. There’s a shiver running down his back. “You’re not being anything, just say it.”

“It’s nothing, okay? I just wanted to tell you this much. Just that much,” he says. “Now you know, so… so you can… know it.”

Jaehyun smiles. His heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest. Now he knows for sure. Well, not for sure that Taeyong likes him, just that Taeyong could like him. That it’s within the realm of possibility. Somewhat.

There’s an embarrassed grin on Taeyong’s face and he won’t meet his eyes, and Jaehyun swears that’s the most endearing he’s ever seen his hyung. Black hair falling into his eyes, fingers toying with his too-long sleeves.

He wonders if he should just ask him. Do you like me? I like you. Are you falling? I think I’m falling hard.

“You want to say something, or..?” Taeyong trails off, leaning against the railing.

“Uh…” Jaehyun says. He wants to say hyung, go out with me? He wants to say something deep and romantic, but the most his brain is coming up with is, hyung, date me, I’ll romance the shit out of you.

He decides to save the confessions for another day, with at least a speech prepared. With a lot of rationalizing, a lot of reasons why this wouldn’t be a terrible fucking idea, why they should risk everything. And an exit strategy, if it goes south. And maybe an actual pair of balls, because the thought of asking him out has got a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

“Um,” he says again. He needs to say something. He looks over to Taeyong, his handsome face and that nervous, distant look in his eyes.

“Me too?” he ventures, and this time he cringes for real at how dumb he sounded.

Taeyong’s lips part. And then they close again. And then he chuckles. He looks down at his

feet for the briefest of moments, and then he looks up at him, a faint blush tinting his skin. He’s a little sweaty, but so cute. Boyishly, awkwardly cute, and Jaehyun wants to wrap his arms around him and squeeze him and tickle him and kiss him till he’s laughing and gasping and giggling like an idiot.

“I want to kiss you,” Taeyong blurts out.

“Oh,” Jaehyun breathes. He stares at Taeyong as if trying to figure out if he’s kidding, if he’s serious, if he’s allowed to put his hands on his tiny waist and kiss him all soft and tender and clumsy, like first kisses and promises. He’s serious, he realizes.

“Five!” someone yells from downstairs.

Jaehyun’s head whips around.

“Starting in five!”

When he turns back, Taeyong is shifting from his spot, straightening his shirt, his head bowed as if too embarrassed to look up.

“Me too,” Jaehyun breathes.

 

 

  
**1949, Seoul**

He doesn’t know how to do this, he realizes. He’s been alive for eighteen years, had one too many conversations with the boys about how to get tail and the exact number of buttons to be left undone at the top of his shirt to get the girls to swoon and all that. But nobody ever taught him how to handle himself in this situation.

Here he is, outside Taeyong’s bedroom door, grimacing at the sprigs of little purple flowers he picked from the plots of land down by the industrial area.

Why would he like this, he wonders.

But he decides he doesn’t know anything about anything, and if the tall white GI told him the trick to getting ‘em swooning isn’t shirt buttons but flowers, he’s going to believe him. He scowls at the flowers one more time and then he knocks.

He pushes the door open and steps in even as Taeyong’s muffled voice says come in, and he’s standing in the middle of the room staring at his feet and holding the flowers out stupidly.

He looks up. Taeyong looks puzzled.

“I think those are for downstairs,” Taeyong says.

“What?”

“The flowers?”

“What?” He says again.

“The flowers? For the study?”

“The… what?” He looks down at the flowers, and then up at Taeyong. Right. He thinks they’re for the vase in the study. Right. That’s what any reasonable man would think, considering how Jaehyun was sent to the flower shop in Incheon to pick up roses, so the flowers in the study and the dining room vases could be changed.

Of course, Taeyong doesn’t know that while Jaehyun stood there waiting for the ahjumma to wrap roses up in tissue, an American GI walked on in and bought a bunch of roses, caught him staring, and told him in mixed up English and Korean and a few lewd gestures that the flowers were for his lady friend waiting outside. Of course, Taeyong doesn’t know that Jaehyun watched the soldier walk outside and the way that girl smiled for him was something giddily in love, and maybe that got him thinking a little.

And maybe he looked over at the lilies and carnations on display in the shop and his heart did an embarrassing flutter, and he reached into his pocket and found lint and some old candy. Maybe, maybe, just then the spring flowers bloomed pretty and fragrant in the grass by the steel mill, just for him, and maybe he stopped on his way home and trundled about in the mud to find just the right shade of lavender that could maybe, maybe get that smile out of Taeyong. Just for him.

“Uh,” he mumbles.

“Did you sleep okay last night?” Taeyong chuckles. “You seem a little out of it.”

“Sorry,” he says with an unconvincing laugh. “I’m, yeah, I just got a little confused.”

The back of his neck is burning uncomfortably. This was supposed to go differently. That tall white man’s voice is echoing in his head, all muffled with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Ggeot, you gotta get ggeot, you’ll have them Sarang you, he said.

Sarang, my ass, he thinks.

“What are these anyway?”

“Huh?”

“He usually gives us roses, what are these ones?” Taeyong says.

“Dunno,” Jaehyun replies. “They’re just pretty.”

“They smell nice,” Taeyong says.

They reminded me of you, Jaehyun wants to tell him. Something pure and elegant.

“Mm,” he says instead.

“Seriously, what’s with you?” Taeyong says.

 

  
It’s just past eight when Taeyong sets his books aside and heads downstairs for dinner. He trudges down mechanically, slips into the study to set some papers down on his father’s table. Bank statement, water and electricity bills for the month, he counts. He places a paperweight over them. Heads off to the dining room where the maid is setting the table.

“What’s for dinner?” He asks.

“Sardines, doryeonnim,” she replies.

He scrunches his nose and sits down. He hates sardines. Halmeoni never makes sardines for him, but her cough is getting terrible these days and she’s taken a few days off and this damn new cook doesn’t know how much he hates sardines.

He’ll eat it anyway, can’t be helped. Shouldn’t waste food, that’s what his mum always said.

He should check on halmeoni too, it’s really awful, that cough.

He looks up vacantly.

“Where’s Jaehyun?” He asks.

“He’s out back, he’s putting the clothesline back up, I think,” she says, pouring him a glass of water.

He’s going to need it, damned sardines.

“Rain knocked it over again?” He asks. She nods. Evening spring storms, particularly windy this time. At least it’s stopped raining now. He looks around, wishing Jaehyun didn’t have so much work to do all the time. Flowers and clotheslines and cleaning the car and pruning the bushes. At least the roses look nice, he thinks.

He pauses.

Roses?

In the study, too, there were roses. On the landing, on the stand below the Hokusai, those were roses.

“Where are the purple ones?” He says.

“Pardon, doryeonnim?”

“The purple flowers, the small ones?” He says, pointing at the vase.

“We only got roses, sir, same as always,” she says. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Hmm? Nothing, it’s nothing,” he says.

 

It’s nothing, but after dinner, he walks stupidly into the kitchen, startles the new cook out of her wits, shoots her a placating smile, and runs off through the backdoor.

Jaehyun, he’s just crouched down, washing his hands under the tap, wiping them on an old

rag when he sees Taeyong walking towards him. One single kerosene lamp on the stone slab beside him, gleaming, flickering yellow, still wet from the rain.

“Hi,” he says with a grin. He stands. “Heard it’s sardines for dinner.”

“Mm, yes, it was awful,” Taeyong says hurriedly. “So those flowers, I couldn’t find them anywhere. Did you… where’d they go?”

He doesn’t know if he made a lot of sense, but Jaehyun knows what he’s talking about. The way he looks down at his hands and toys with the rag, and his face is hidden in the shadows, dim yellow light flickering.

“Those… uh, I… those?” He says.

“Because the maid said she’d asked for roses and we got roses and I was just wondering if…”

Jaehyun clears his throat and looks up.

“Right, they didn’t, I didn’t get them from the florist. I just saw them by the side of the road and I thought they looked nice but you didn’t… but nobody really liked them so I just…”

But you didn’t like them. Is that what he wanted to say? Were they for him?

“I liked them,” Taeyong says slowly. “I thought they were really pretty.”

“Uh,” he says. He sniffs. Shifts his weight and looks away and fiddles with the rag in his hands. “Do you want them, then?”

Jaehyun thought of him, stopped by the side of the road and picked flowers for him?

“Yeah I want them. If it’s okay, I mean…”

“Sure, yeah, just give me a second,” Jaehyun says. He tosses the rag over the clothesline and hurries off towards his house, and Taeyong watches him go for a moment before he decides to follow him.

He stands patiently outside Jaehyun’s door, listening to him explaining something to halmeoni. Their voices are muffled and distant, despite the thin plywood door and the few feet that separate them. He turns around and busies himself with watching that rag fluttering in the breeze, away in the distance. It’s starting to drizzle again. The softest, mistiest thing. He doesn’t mind it.

The door opens and closes behind him, and he turns back to Jaehyun.

“Here,” Jaehyun says. He’s doing the same thing again, looking at his feet, flowers thrust almost to Taeyong’s chest.

“Thanks,” Taeyong says, his fingers closing around the stems. He takes them from Jaehyun’s hands, regards them closely. They’re wilted now, one sprig with a broken stem, but it’s the first thing Jaehyun ever got him.

He doesn’t really know why. It’s not like he likes flowers or anything. He doesn’t know what they’re called or what to do with them, even, but Jaehyun picked them, and that’s enough.

“Halmi says it’s lavender.”

“Hmm?”

“They’re called lavenders. Or something.”

“I like them,” he says. “A lot.”

When he looks up, he finds that Jaehyun’s looking at him a way, a certain way that has him feeling warm, gets his skin buzzing. Jaehyun’s reaching for him, cupping his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone. He doesn’t hesitate this time. He doesn’t think twice before he rests a hand on Jaehyun’s chest and kisses him on the mouth, doesn’t think where they’re going or what they’re doing with themselves, he just presses their lips together.

He breaks the kiss, and Jaehyun is standing in a daze, a silly smile on his lips.

“Come upstairs,” Taeyong whispers.

 

They slip into the house through the front door, tiptoeing past the study and up the stairs. The house is quiet and dark, and it doesn’t make a difference because Taeyong shuts his bedroom door on the rest of the world, stands in the darkness of his room and looks at Jaehyun. They’re hesitant for the briefest of moments before they come together, naturally, like it’s already a habit.

Hands are cupping his face again, fingertips ghosting over his skin, his lips, brushing softly against his eyelashes, and he wonders how Jaehyun could be so gentle. For someone whose hands are so used to toil, young hands forced to harden, how could they be so gentle?

And he doesn’t expect it, but he lets himself find out what happens if he doesn’t stop their kiss. He just kisses him tender, and kisses him hungry, and lets Jaehyun press him against his mattress and slip wet little kisses into his mouth and trail his lips over those three spots on his neck, right below the angle of his jaw, God, he flushes at that, and Jaehyun does, too. But he doesn’t stop them, he just slips his hand into Jaehyun’s hair and pulls him up for another kiss, legs wrapping around his waist, bodies pressing together.

The clock on his table ticks loud and obtrusive and their breaths mingle and their sighs stay muted and fearful in the darkness of his room. He doesn’t think, doesn’t stop. Maybe it’s because of the way Jaehyun’s looking at him, just like he did before, like he’s seen something wondrous, like a thing of beauty, like devotion and worship, and that makes him feel something he can’t put into words.

Maybe that’s why he gives in to his hands. Like flowers withering on branches, trembling in every gentle breeze, perched between life and death till they can’t cling to life anymore and they fall. The two of them, perched between innocence and guilt till they fall. He falls.

It’s raining again. Deafening, thunderous, muting their whispers and quiet little moans.

And only when his back arches and and his bare chest presses against Jaehyun’s, and he sighs into Jaehyun’s mouth, shivers under his touch, makes him groan against his skin, only then does he realise what they’ve done.

When Jaehyun leaves, it’s late, and Taeyong bolts the kitchen door behind him, watches him go from the kitchen window for as long as he can before he returns to his room.

  
He lies in bed that night, looking at the flowers - the lavender - sitting broken stemmed and wilting in a glass of water on his nightstand. He thinks about what happened, and he finds himself surprised. He’s not wondering how he let that happen, hands on his skin, places of whispers and pleasure. He’s wondering if he can kiss him all his life.

He knows Jaehyun’s thought about it, too. Maybe he’s thinking about it right now. Growing old together, in love till their dying breath. He’s happy with that thought.

He wonders if God will punish them for this, for being happy this way. Maybe he will, but he’s not sorry, because that hasn’t been his God since he stood in a black suit in a cemetery in Paju and lost his faith, lost the only love he’s ever known in all his life, the only kindness, the only beauty, all the things in this world that truly hold God in their hands.

Since that day, Jaehyun’s smile has been the closest he’s ever been to believing in God, so he’s not sorry.

 

 

“It’s her heart, then?” Jaehyun says. He looks so small.

“Yeah, that’s what he thinks,” Taeyong says.

He gets this strange distant look in his eye for a moment. Just a moment, and Taeyong knows he’s terrified of being left behind again. He lets out a long breath and sits down, palms on his thighs, squeezing. The chairs are miserable metal things that freeze in the winters and burn in the summers, Taeyong knows that.

“I really thought it was just a cough,” he says.

“I know.”

“Thanks for checking on her, hyung. If you hadn’t, I don’t think we’d have found out in time.”

He guessed it, the moment he walked into Jaehyun’s house and found halmeoni lying propped up in bed, breathless, feet starting to swell, he guessed it. Brought his steth down, sat her up and listened to her chest, and he heard what he was afraid of.

“We found out in time, right? We can fix it?”

He’s spoken with so many patients and their families, but he’s never hated how he sounds as much as he does now.

“We can keep it from getting worse,” he says.

“You sound like a doctor.”

“Jaehyun,” he breathes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me honestly, is it bad?”

He’s never hated having to answer a question as much as he hates this.

“It’s bad,” he says quietly.

Jaehyun nods. His hands in tight fists on his thighs.

Taeyong needs to take a long, steadying breath before he can move. He steps closer, places a comforting hand on Jaehyun’s shoulder.

“We’ll take care of her Jaehyun. Six weeks, some digitalis, she’ll be alright,” he says.

“How much will it cost?”

He can’t afford it, he knows that much. He draws him close, and he feels some sickeningly visceral hurt when Jaehyun tucks his face against his waist and mumbles the same question again.

He doesn’t think before he lies.

“There are free beds,” he mumbles. “I can talk to someone, there’s schemes for free treatment, I’ll take care of it.”

He’ll take care of it, the bill, he’ll pay it. It would kill Jaehyun if he ever found out, it would hurt his pride, and he could never do that to Jaehyun.

“I’ll take care of her,” he says.

Jaehyun wraps his arms around Taeyong’s waist.

“I’ll take care of you.”

 

 

  
“Hyung!” He says. He’s in a good mood now that he’s seen his grandmother sitting up and smiling, after weeks being too breathless to finish a sentence. He’s been waiting for Taeyong outside his lecture hall, to get a quick kiss in before he goes home again.

“Jaehyun!” He says. He breaks away from the group of boys he was walking with. “I thought you were coming in tomorrow, what are you doing here?”

“Juinnim’s afternoon cleared up and halmi said she wanted figs so I thought I’d get them.”

“I’m glad her appetite’s back, but I could have got her the figs you dummy,” he says.

“No, she didn’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble, don’t be stupid.”

He looks good today. Extra good. Maybe it’s a new shirt.

“Well, I also wanted to see you,” he says sheepishly. “Sooner than tomorrow.”

“Oh,” he says. And maybe there’s a small smile on his face, but he’s looking back over his shoulder at the group of boys waiting for him.

“It’s okay if you’re busy, I’ll just head back.”

“No!” He says. “No, I was just going to ask you if you wanted to meet some of the boys from class. We were going to head out for some pork rinds.”

“Oh,” he says. Like a reflex he smoothes down his shirt and tries to fix his hair.

“Only if that’s okay with you, I mean I’d be fine just sitting here with you, or heading back to the room, I mean…”

He clears his throat and fiddles with a stray strand of hair.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Of course it’s fine.”

“That’s great then, let’s go.”

He looks over at the boys once again. They look rich.

“Hyung, you’re sure, right? Are they going to be okay with it?”

“Of course they are, they’re really nice.”

 

 

And they are. They’re perfectly nice young men, trying to make him comfortable right off the bat. Regaling him with stories of the worst cases they’ve ever seen, oh god that tuberculosis, his lymph nodes were the size of my fist, no that man with the burns, he didn’t have a face I tell you, what about the Hanta, though, he bled all over my shoes.

Taeyong just shakes his head, chuckles, and tells him not to listen, just eat your bulgogi before you lose your appetite.

He grins, he doesn’t mind, this is fun. He likes them. He can keep up with their conversation, too, he was scared he’d look stupid, but politics? He could argue all day. The classics? Taeyong’s read him plenty, and he’s taken to borrowing books from Taeyong’s room to read before bed, so he’s fine when they quote something obscure, he can laugh at their jokes.

“So, you’re in high school? Where do you go, same as Taeyong?”

“No, it’s in Munson, I don’t think you’d know it.”

“Munson? The catholic school?”

“Uh,” he says. No, not the catholic school. The public school. Should he say that? They look so damn rich and fuck, they actually like him, should he say it?

“Well, I’d like to make an announcement,” the youngest says. “I’m officially not the maknae in this group anymore.”

Another chuckle goes round the table, and Jaehyun feels silly for thinking so much. But strangely, oddly, the way Taeyong shifted in his seat beside him, it sits on his skin like the sweat of a Seoul summer.

 

 

When he falls asleep that night, he thinks about his day.

It’s in Munson, I don’t think you’d know it.

Of course they wouldn’t, it’s a two bit public school, not like the private schools and missionary schools they went to, not like the one Taeyong went to, with teachers actually showing up to class and regular schedules and tennis courts and swimming pools and pressed uniforms with ties all lined up in class photographs. He’s just lucky he has a toilet to piss in at school, some of the schools his friends go to don’t even have that. The great outdoors and a bush you like, that’s what they have.

Half his friends can’t even spell their own name and they’re eighteen, nineteen years old. With them he’s a god damn king, the way he breezes through his exams, all he had needed was that little bit of help from Taeyong in the beginning and now he’s unstoppable.

Or so he thought. But maybe, when he sits with soon to be doctors from big rich families with nice shiny shoes, god is he glad he put some extra time into shining his shoes this morning. Not that he was trying to impress anyone, he just wanted to look nice for his grandmother.

But maybe, when he sits with them, he’s just a little bit smaller, a little bit lower, a little too bland.

He shakes his head. No. Taeyong asked him to come. Taeyong smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek before he got on the bus, when nobody was looking. That’s enough. He’s big enough for Taeyong, and that’s enough.

 

 

 

**Present Day, Seoul**

He doesn’t think it’s possible for anyone to be as much of a loser as he is. Honestly. Nothing happened in Chiang Mai. But that wasn’t his fault. Taeyong got so sick and threw up so many times he almost passed out, and that’s really the wrong time to ask someone out. That’s one thing the whole world can agree on.

Limitless dropped. Nothing happened after that. That wasn’t his fault either. Taeyong was stretched so thin, Jaehyun was surprised he didn’t snap like a rubber band pulled too tight.

But now they’re on the tail end of promotions. He can do this, right?

He can. He totally can.

He’s lying in bed wrapped up in his blanket, his phone almost pressed to his face because he’s afraid who’ll see. Johnny’s grumbling something at him.

“Huh?” He says.

“What are you doing? Get some sleep,” Johnny says.

“I don’t deserve sleep,” he mumbles. “I’m a loser and losers don’t deserve anything.”

“The hell,” Johnny mumbles, but he’s too tired to ask what he’s on about.

He doesn’t know, that Jaehyun’s scrolling through the comments on Holland’s debut. On Naver, on youtube, on every gossipy website he knows, he’s looking at the comments, it’s about 70 - 30, he guesses. 70 percent happy and proud, 30 percent disgusted and nasty.

70 - 30, those odds are good, he thinks. If he asks Taeyong out and he says yes and they start secretly dating and fall disgustingly in love and everyone finds out because they’re bad at keeping their emotions off their stupid faces and they’re already looking at each other like love lorn teenagers. Then 70 percent of people will be happy for them. 30 percent will tell them they should kill themselves.

Fuck, no, there’s another angle to this. Idols secretly dating, that’s career death in this industry. Alright, no, 50-50. 40-60?

Maybe. And even if they have to leave NCT and SM and pursue solo careers, there’s crowdfunding, and there’s always international fans. And they’re still young, they can think of other careers, too, he’s always been good at… math.

Fuck.

He rolls over in bed and groans. This sounds like a terrible idea.

“Keep it down loser,” Johnny grumbles.

“Sorry,” he says, and goes back to being the world’s saddest blanket burrito.

 

 

  
**1949, Seoul.**

Jaehyun’s smoothing a stray strand of hair back with a spit slicked finger, frowning at his reflection in the polished silver vase by the staircase. His grandmother would probably smack him upside the head if she saw him, but it’s an emergency. Taeyong’s friend is here, in the big house, and they’re currently in the hall eating fresh tangerines if he’s not wrong, and he doesn’t want to look ugly when he says hello. Not that he wants to impress anyone, he just doesn’t want Taeyong to be embarrassed of him. The strand sticks back up stubbornly, and he groans and gives up.

He enters the hall apprehensively.

“Hi,” he says.

  
“Jaehyun, come on in, I wanted you to meet Guk Du again, you two got on so well last time,” Taeyong says, grinning.

“Of course, he’s our new maknae. Sit down, man, cool off, it’s quite hot out,” Guk Du says. There’s some tangerine being thrust into his hands, and he grins and sucks on it.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, looking to Taeyong for confirmation. He’s never sat on the sofas in the hall before.

“Well, go on,” Taeyong says, so he sits down gingerly. The tangerine’s good, sweetest he’s had all summer.

“Where do you live? I hope it wasn’t a long drive? I said it’s fine, but Taeyong insisted you come.”

“What do you mean?” He mumbles, mouth full of tangerine. He didn’t want to look stupid, but he sure sounded it just now.

“I mean where do you live?” Guk Du says, chuckling and clapping him on the back.

He looks at Taeyong, and Taeyong looks as dumbfounded as Jaehyun feels.

“I live here,” he says, confused.

“In this neighbourhood?”

And it begins to dawn on him then.

“I live here, in the outhouse,” he says. He’s looking at Taeyong, and Taeyong’s mouth opens and closes stupidly, and he looks like he wants to say he’s sorry. There’s a brief silence.

“Why?” Guk Du says.

He swallows down the tangerine, his throat sticky and dry.

“I work here,” he replies hoarsely. It’s just begun to dawn on him that Taeyong hasn’t told his friends the full truth about him. His neck begins to warm. Was he embarrassed of him, then? No, no way.

“He doesn’t work here,” Taeyong says firmly, pinning him with a look.

“My grandmother works here. She’s the housekeeper,” Jaehyun says. It sounds a lot more upset than he thought he was.

“The housekeeper! As in cooking and cleaning?” Guk Du exclaims.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Taeyong says, with an edge to his voice he’s never heard before, but Jaehyun’s already getting to his feet.

“Hyung, maybe I should go,” he says.

“You don’t have to go,” Taeyong says.   
“No, I had to take the laundry down anyway. Excuse me, doryeonnim,” he says to Guk Du, bows and lets himself out. He’s trembling, he’s so humiliated, face warm and eyes burning and he feels very, very stupid despite his best efforts.

And as he’s walking away, he can hear it in the background.

“You let him call you hyung?”

“He’s my friend, what else is he going to call me?”

“Alright, fine, I get it, you’re a friend of the proletariat, but you’re paying your housekeeper’s bills? You’re… you’re too kind, Taeyong.”

That stops him dead in his tracks.

 

  
He’s glaring the grass black, that’s what he’s doing. Glaring at the grass till it fears for its life and withers. He’s not sure who he’s angry with. Taeyong? For being embarrassed of him? For lying about who he is and what he does and what he’s worth?

At himself? For thinking he could be friends with Taeyong’s friends. For being too pathetic to pay his grandmother’s hospital bills? For being Taeyong’s charity? He bristles when the door opens behind him and he smells that familiar scent, hears those familiar footfalls.

Taeyong settles on the creaky step beside Jaehyun.

“He just left,” he reports.

“Hmm.”

Some uncomfortable silence descends between them.

“You know you didn’t have to leave.”

“I just got the feeling it would be better to,” he replies.

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

But you didn’t ask me to stay, either, he thinks, glaring at the grass a little harder, and he swears it blackens some more.

“Next time just stay,” he says. “I want you to be there as my friend.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey,” he says, bumping their shoulders together. “Hey, give me a smile?”

“You don’t have to do this, hyung.”

“I know, but I want to know that you’re okay.”

He takes a deep breath and looks up Taeyong’s face.

“Why didn’t you tell them I work here?” He asks.

“Because you don’t work here,” Taeyong says simply.

“You know what I mean.”

Taeyong swallows, looks away. He doesn’t like it. It makes him clench his jaw and his fingers pick at the splintered wood of the step, and he doesn’t like it at all.

“Jaehyun, I… it just never came up.”

“Really?”

Taeyong sighs and looks back at him. His face is open again, what he’s used to seeing. He looks him right in the eye, the way he always does.

“Look, you like them, don’t you? My friends? They like you, too. I figured whatever you want to tell them or don’t want to tell them, it’s your decision.”

“Why would I not want to tell them?”

Because you’re ashamed? Because you think I should be ashamed?

“Because they’re not like me,” Taeyong says. “They’re nice people but they’ve grown up differently. They’re a little… how do I put this? I didn’t want them to treat you differently, because you’re my best friend and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

He glares at Taeyong. Fuck, he thinks. He’s glaring at Taeyong. He hasn’t done that since he was twelve years old. It feels foreign and ugly, and he doesn’t like that either, so he softens.

“You still haven’t told me if you’re okay.”

He settles on scowling at him instead.

“Jaehyun, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear,” Taeyong says. He’s taking his hand and linking their fingers together. “I swear, I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I just wanted you to meet him because I thought you liked him, that’s all. I just… don’t want anyone to hurt you, alright?”

He nods. That works. Softened him right up. The grass thanks him for his mercy.

“Are you okay?” He asks again.

He’s not.

“I’m okay.”

“We’re okay?”

The question is on the tip of his tongue, are you really paying halmi’s bills, hyung? Why didn’t you tell me, hyung? Are you taking pity on me, making sure no one hurts my pride?

But he’s not brave enough, because if he asks, then he’ll get an honest answer, and if he gets that answer, then his pride won’t let it keep happening. But he’s too pathetic to pay the bills himself, so what good will his stupid pride do here? He can’t ask that question, because he can’t afford to be angry about this. He can’t afford a god damned thing.

“Yeah,” he says.

 

 

  
They’re in the car, Jaehyun’s driving Taeyong back to the hospital, and it’s safe to say they’re not okay.

“What’s with you?” Taeyong asks.

“Hmm?”

“You haven’t said a word, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“Jaehyun.”

“I think I want to go to college too,” he blurts out.

Taeyong’s too taken aback to say anything for a moment. He had expected something different, something about what happened with Guk Du, not this. Jaehyun’s eyeing him warily. Little sideward glances.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, don’t be. That would be wonderful,” Taeyong says. “What do you want to study?”

“Don’t mock me, hyung,” Jaehyun, says.

That catches him by surprise, too. He’s never mocked him, not once, so what’s this about?

“I’m not making fun of you, I mean it. If you really want to go to college, that’s great,” he says, confused.

“Very funny."

“I’m not trying to be.”

“What do you think, I’m shitting money?” Jaehyun scoffs.

It sounds mean, Jaehyun’s never mean.

“No, I don’t, I just meant…”

“It’s not possible, I know.”

They’re not okay, are they? God, he was so stupid, he should never have asked for Jaehyun to come see Guk Du, he should have known, he should have known.

“Don’t say that,” he says. “There are loans that could help you, there’s all kinds of… Or I could help you out? We could ask abeoji, or… or I’ll start earning soon, maybe…”

In the silence that follows, he thinks he’s fixed it, he thinks maybe Jaehyun’s thinking about what he said, but he was wrong.

“What makes you think I’d let you do that?” Jaehyun says quietly. “What makes you think I’d take your charity?”

“Jaehyun, what the hell? I didn’t mean… look, you can pay me back later, when you can, that’s all I meant.”

There’s that silence again, bristling and clawing and gnawing away between them. He’s looking at Jaehyun, but Jaehyun’s looking straight ahead, straight at the road. Moments pass.

“Sorry. Sorry, did I say something?” He implores.

“I don’t want your help. I’ll do it myself.”

“Jaehyun, times are difficult, and you’re my best friend, I don’t mind helping out.”

“Of course,” he says flatly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What did that mean?” He asks again, firm, he’s hurt by this, they’re never like this, not with each other. The car’s slowing to a stop, and he didn’t even know when they reached the campus. They’re pulling up in front of his dormitory, and Jaehyun hasn’t spoken yet.

“Jaehyun?” He says.

“Look. Once you do this, get your degree and start working, and your friends are all… fancy. Where would that leave me?”

His hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white.  
“Jaehyun - ”

“You’re going to say we’ll still be friends, but no, really, where does that leave me? Am I going to be driving you around? Wearing your old clothes? But we’re still friends? Friends are equals, hyung.”

“And all of this makes you less than me?”

“No. I mean, I saw it. I’ve seen it. Your father, that guy, they don’t think I’m worthy of being around you, I’ve seen the way they look at me when I talk to you.”

“Worthy of being around me?” He says quietly.

Jaehyun groans and turns to him. He looks like someone Taeyong doesn’t recognise. Bitter and angry and mean.

“No, look, I don’t know. You won’t understand. When you’re out, people know you, you know? You’re Mister Lee’s son, you’re Lee Taeyong, you’re that young man who’s going to be a doctor. I’m just that tall kid from the bakery. I want to be more than that.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that tall kid from the bakery.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, and he turns away.

Taeyong thinks he’s heard enough, so he gets out of the car and leaves.

 

 

“So what you’re saying is,” Soohyun says, puzzled. “He wants to support you in everything you do, he’s willing to go far enough to help you with the money if you want to go to college and he said to pay him back whenever you can, and whatever you choose to do, he thinks you’re perfect the way you are, and he promised you’ll always be his friend.”

“…yeah.”

“And you’re upset with him.”

“Look, you’re making it sound like…”

“I’m not making anything happen, this is all you.”

Jaehyun slams the carton of empty bottles down in the back of the van. He’s pissed off, and this little brat isn’t helping.

“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” He snaps.

“Oppa, you think you’re an idiot, too, no?”

“Go braid your hair or something.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“Fine, I’m an idiot.”

“And there it is,” she says. Jaehyun makes a face at her, flaps his dirty hands in her face to shoo her away, but she just slides into the back of the van and swings her legs with so much callousness it irks him. “So, you want to tell me what your deal is?”

“What deal?” He asks, exasperated.

“Why are you getting all worked up over this?”

“I… I don’t know, I just misunderstood, I guess.”

“Sure.”

  
“I think I just… he’s so respectable, you know, he’s rich, like mad rich, and he’s also nice. And smart. And he works hard. And everyone knows him and his family, and they all have good things to say about him, and I feel like I’m just some kid he looks after. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be his charity, I guess. I want to be his… friend, you know? I want to be someone he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with.”

“You want to make him proud?” She supplies.

He wants to smack her upside the head. Someone should really beat this girl, he thinks.

“No,” he says instead. “No, that sounds weird. I don’t… I don’t know how to describe it.”

“So you’re saying you want to go to college for him.”

“What? No, that’s dumb.”

“You’re pretty dumb, I think we established that.”

“God, go giggle over Joon Jae hyung or something, leave me alone,” he says, heading back inside to pick up another carton. She isn’t going, she isn’t giggling, she’s just getting under his skin and it’s riling him up.

“You want to be his equal, and do things for him, you want to make him proud of you and do everything by yourself like a big boy, you want to be someone he can rely on too, instead of someone he takes care of,” she rattles off, hurrying along beside him. “But you’re an idiot, so instead of saying that, you got mad at him, and you haven’t spoken to him in days and god you’re just so dumb.”

Yes, of course he wants to do all that because he’s so uselessly, pathetically in love, and they’re damned straight to hell for being this way, and he has no luck and all he has is a dead father and a missing mother and dying grandmother and the only good thing he has in this life is this boy that he’s so uselessly, pathetically in love with and he’s so damned hurt by this because he wants to be big enough to be home for the both of them. But all he can do is be useless. Pathetic.

“Soohyun, damn it,” he begins, but he’s left with the uncomfortable feeling that she’s right. He slams another carton down. “I’m dumb.”

 

 

  
It’s night, by the time he stops sulking around in his house and goes outside to take the laundry down. And that’s when he realises Taeyong’s home for the weekend. He stands by the clothesline with the laundry basket in hand, and he sees Taeyong sitting on the steps by the backdoor, small and desolate. He didn’t think he was coming. Nobody sent him to pick him up. He walks up to him, feeling oddly like a small child.

“What are you doing here?” He says.

“I was just… thinking. I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Things. You.”

He looks so distraught, thinly veiled.

“I didn’t think you were coming home this weekend, no one told me…”

“I took the bus.”

“Why?”

Why? Because he all but said he hates having to drive Taeyong around. But Taeyong doesn’t say anything, because he’s bigger than that, and that just makes Jaehyun feel like such a fucking idiot.

“Jaehyun, the way I am,” he says instead. “You’re right, people know me, and they expect big things from me, and I have money and I went to a good school and I own a couple of suits, you’re right. I can’t change any of that. I don’t want to change any of that.”

He lets a moment pass, but Jaehyun doesn’t know what to say or do here, so he picks at the wood on the railing. He’s going to get a splinter under his nail at this rate.

“And the way you are, I understand, if you think people look down on you or don’t see you, all of you, your potential... But that’s them, Jaehyun,” he says.

“Hyung -

“I meant it, when I said I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way you are. I know you, I know that you’re crazy kind and smart and you’re… and I… I meant it,” he says. He brings his knees to his chest. “If you want to change something, if you want to go to college and make money and get people to see what I see, that’s fine, that’s great, I’ll always support you, any way I can, as far as you’d let me. And if you don’t want to change anything, that’s fine too. You and I, we’ll always be the same.”

He stands there, staring at the grass again, worn thin and yellow brown in a track to the clothesline. Always, he said. Always, does he mean that? Does he mean all of that? Oh god, he’s so big, so much bigger than Jaehyun is, he can’t be a home to this man, he’s just not big enough.

Taeyong is looking at him, he knows he should say something.

“Well, I just… that’s been on my mind,” Taeyong says. “Now I’ve said it, so…”

He should say something.

“Alright, goodnight,” Taeyong says hesitantly. He stands, lingers for a moment as if giving Jaehyun another chance to just say something.

“Hyung, I’m sorry,” Jaehyun says abruptly. He drops his gaze, embarrassed. “I know… I already know. The things you said.”

“Then why were you so angry with me?” He breathes.

“I wasn’t angry with you,” he says. “I was just being a fucking idiot and I’m sorry.”

“God, I thought I hurt you so terribly -

“You didn’t. You couldn’t,” he says.

He still doesn’t ask about the hospital bills, he doesn’t deserve to, he’s just not big enough.

 

  
They lay in Taeyong’s bed, their bodies like parentheses on opposite ends of a word, and in the space between them, Taeyong’s hand slides into Jaehyun’s open palm, fingertips tracing skin and bone, and Jaehyun watches him. In the space between them, they hold something raw and unchanging, some wonder, some gratitude, something healing, something forgiving, growing and growing and warm. There’s that word for this, he thinks. That word they haven’t said.

Living and breathing in all the spaces of their lives, all the cracks in the mundane, all the bland yellowed grass, still living and beautiful. Devotion, he thinks, but not as unforgiving. Kinder.

Taeyong’s hand settles in his, eyelids dipping, slipping into sleep.

Jaehyun shifts a little closer. “Hey,” he whispers. “Always? You think we can do this always?”

“Yeah,” Taeyong mumbles back. His eyes open. “For as long as we can… as long as god lets us get away with this, I want this.”

“I want this too,” he says stupidly. “And more. God can do what he wants, I’m keeping you with me.”

Taeyong leans close, presses a long kiss to his lips. “You mean that?” he murmurs.

“I think I do,” Jaehyun whispers.

“Isn’t that…” he doesn’t know what he wants to say. “Isn’t that frightening?” He finishes.

“Are you afraid?”

“I think I am,” he says.

 

**Present Day**

Taeyong sighs and rolls over in bed. It’s the third time this week this week he’s had this strangely vivid dream, he knows it’s painfully vivid, the colours and the sounds, they’re like real life but turned up, but when he wakes up he’s clinging to fleeting images and the softest whispers. It’s the third time and it’s still Thursday.

He rolls around some more, but he can’t find that just-right balance of body under the covers and feet sticking out. He gives up and sits up. It doesn’t look like he’s going to fall asleep again tonight.

He should get a drink of water or warm milk or something. Do they even have milk in the fridge?

He gets out of bed. He’s trying not to think about his dream again. What does it even mean? He can’t get it out of his head, those eyes, wide and fearful and red rimmed, glazing over with tears, that face. Jaehyun’s face. Staring. Then shaking his head, slow and miserable. He’s saying no, or maybe he’s saying don’t do it, but he’s terrified, and somewhere rain is thundering down.

What could it mean?

Maybe he knows what it means, he thinks, rounding the corner into the kitchen. Maybe it has something to do with his silence since that night in Chiang Mai.

Not that they haven’t spoken or hung out, not that it’s been anything but normal between the two of them, but that’s just the problem. It’s too normal. Where’s the toe curling confession? Where’s the electric first kiss? Was he reading it all wrong?

No, he wasn’t. It’s mutual, this thing he’s feeling, it’s mutual, he can see it in the way Jaehyun looks at him. Maybe it’s just that Jaehyun’s the only one here with his head on his shoulders and his feet on the ground. Maybe he’s thinking about what it would do to their careers if they decided to go ahead with this. Maybe that’s what his dream means, that they shouldn’t act on their feelings.

“Lee Taeyong, you fucking idiot,” he mumbles to himself, opening the fridge.

There’s a loud thud somewhere in the kitchen, and he jumps, slamming the fridge door shut and whipping around.

“Hyung, fuck, you scared the shit out of me!”

“Jaehyun?” He says stupidly. And if he’s judging by Jaehyun’s phone lying face down on the ground, and the fact that Jaehyun’s currently wrapped both arms tight around himself, his blanket too, he’d say he really scared the shit out of him.

He chuckles. “You good?” He asks, bending down to pick the phone up. He inspects the screen for cracks, deciding it had survived the fall before handing it back.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun says.

“Why are you,” he gestures at the whole Jaehyun blanket bundle standing in the middle of the kitchen.

“Johnny hung threw me out for being a noisy loser burrito,” he explains.

Taeyong cracks a smile, and then there’s a slightly awkward silence crawling in between them. Jaehyun clearly feels the tension too, because he bounces on his feet once, and then busies himself with getting something from the fridge.

He sighs and leans back against the kitchen counter. Sometimes he wonders why his life is like a badly written fanfic. Other times he’s impressed with the writing.

He supposes now would be a good time to talk to Jaehyun about things.

“Jaehyun?” He says.

He hums a reply.

“You know,” he tries. “You know that I don’t want you to feel burdened by anything, right?”

The rummaging stops, and the loser burrito is sliding into his line of sight.

“Why would I be burdened by anything?” He asks. He looks serious.

“You know why,” he supplies lamely.

Jaehyun’s looking away for a moment, blanket wrapped tight around himself. And then he’s looking back at Taeyong.

“I won’t say I didn’t think about… you know, all the worst case scenarios. I thought about them, a lot,” Jaehyun says.

Taeyong nods. Of course he thought about them.

“Hyung, I think you’re incredible,” he says softly. “You’re kind and talented and you work so hard and you’re so damn cute.”

Taeyong nods again. He knows what’s coming. “But?” He says with a lopsided grin.

“No but.”

“No butt?” He gasps. “Don’t be mean.”

“B-U-T you dumbass,” Jaehyun says.

He chuckles. “I know, I’m just… nervous.”

“Why?”

“This sounds like a rejection.”

There’s a beat of silence before there’s arms around him, and he feels like a baby swaddled in Jaehyun’s arms and his big, soft blanket, and it’s so cozy and safe that he just melts against him.

“That sucks, because it was supposed to be a confession,” Jaehyun murmurs.

“What?” He says stupidly.

“I’ve thought about everything. And I still want to try,” Jaehyun says. He tightens his arms. “I’m just scared, is all. Because I’m a loser.”

“Guess I’m a loser too then,” he says.

“Yep, for sure, you’re in the burrito now,” he says.

Taeyong laughs, feeling so much lighter than before, and his hands are a little trembly so he fists them in Jaehyun’s t shirt. He feels a little unsteady so he buries his face in the crook of Jaehyun’s shoulder and he takes a moment to breathe.

“I really like you, hyung,” he whispers.

“I really like you, too,” he says, and he kisses him on the cheek.

 

**1949, Seoul.**

It’s Sunday afternoon, sunny, lazy Sunday, the gentlest breeze slipping through the half-closed window, fluttering the half-drawn curtains, rustling the pages of the text book lying abandoned on Taeyong’s desk. One pen, left uncapped, dropped clumsily on the pages of Taeyong’s handwritten notes, two fat drops of ink blotting slowly through the paper. Stuffy, like bedrooms always are in Seoul summers. Bleached sepia in the air.

He should be studying. And Jaehyun should be outside cleaning his father’s car. They shouldn’t be here like this, sticky bodies pressed together, pressed against soft sheets, pressing closer. Taeyong shouldn’t be panting into Jaehyun’s mouth, delirious, palms mapping Jaehyun’s back, but he can’t help it.

He couldn’t when he looked out of his window and he saw him there, his shirt off, tossed carelessly over the roof of the car, the muscle in his back and his arms shifting under skin shining with sweat. Jaehyun turned and looked up at him as if he sensed his presence, felt his attention. It was too late to look away, so he smiled, haltingly, his face burning from the heat, from embarrassment, and Jaehyun smiled back, dazzling in the sunshine, squinting up at him, and then he turned back to his work. Taeyong stepped back into the shadows, flustered, sat back at his desk, picked up his pen and stared at the page in front of him.

He was so glad they were back to being like this.

Perhaps five minutes passed, and an impatient knock on his bedroom door, the hinges creaking even before he could say come in. Jaehyun came into his room, hesitantly, almost guilty when he reached behind him and the lock clicked shut. He stood there and stared for a moment, and Taeyong stared back, his face still burning, watched him take three decisive steps forward. He held his palms to Taeyong’s cheeks. Cool, damp like he just washed them, and he kissed him. Chaste at first, and then breathless, senseless, unhurried but so impatient. He could tell from the way his fingertips slid through his hair and gripped at the back of his neck. Greedy.

He couldn’t help it, when his eyes shut tight and the pen slipped from his fingers and clattered over the tabletop, he couldn’t help it when he slid his arms around Jaehyun’s shoulders and let Jaehyun lead him where he wanted, when he left the ink bleeding through his work.

And now he’s here, his shirt untucked and his hair a mess. Bodies pressed together, pressing closer, mouths warm and wet in a slippery kiss and there’s a hand toying with the top button of his shirt, as if waiting for permission.

“Hyung?” Jaehyun breathes. He’s nosing at Taeyong’s jaw.

“Hmm?”

“Hyung,” he says again, barely pressing his lips to Taeyong’s. He pulls back, looks at him. Fair skin and soft hair and the faintest peach fuzz in the filtered sunlight. Dark eyelashes. His eyes a lighter shade of brown than Taeyong’s own. He’s blinking lazily. He’s so glad they’re alright.

“I have time,” Taeyong breathes.

And he stares, his throat dry and chest burning, lifting himself onto his elbows, watching Jaehyun cleave a path in the fabric, one button at a time, fumbling, deliberately slow till it all comes apart and his chest and abdomen are there for him to see. He hesitates, just another moment before he unfastens his belt, pushes his trousers down his thighs.

He’s always been indifferent to his body, he thinks. Never once flexed his biceps at the mirror like the other boys do, he knows he doesn’t have much, but he’s never been ashamed of that. He’s thin, always had a sickly body, that’s all he’s ever thought about himself. He never had to think anything else.

That was right up until the moment Jaehyun undressed him, transfixed, as if trying to memorize every detail, half lidded eyes, almost dumb with arousal, right up until his fingertips trailed carefully over his skin as if what he’s touching is some beautiful delicate thing, some exquisite work of art. He stares at the boy kneeling between his parted thighs, and under that heavy gaze, he finds that his body can be something entirely new. Sensual, arousing, beautiful in all its banality, in the way tiny little goosebumps appear in the wake of Jaehyun’s fingers, in the softness of his stomach, the black of his hair and the unhealthy pallor of skin, entirely unremarkable, entirely enough.

Jaehyun’s hand curls around his length, and he sighs, his eyes closing tight. That familiar, delicious pleasure like flames licking slowly up the insides of his thighs. Jaehyun’s fingers are still trailing shivering paths over his skin, down his thighs, down, between them, and Taeyong’s head tips back. Down, to brush softly against his entrance. His body jerks, and his eyes open and he stares at Jaehyun, shocked.

A moment passes in strained silence. His mouth is caught in a clumsy kiss, and his focus flits from the press of Jaehyun’s lips to the hesitant press of his fingers. He breaks the kiss. He doesn’t know what Jaehyun wants to do.

“I had a dream,” he whispers against his skin. “I made love to you.”

Taeyong is unsure if he heard right.

“Oh,” Taeyong says. Just a sigh, just a breath, barely a whisper. Shocked out of his mind. They’re caught in each other’s gaze, stuck there like they’re suspended in some thick viscid liquid, like they’re floating and weightless and they can’t quite breathe and all the sounds of the world won’t reach them in this moment. Somehow in their silence, Taeyong gives his consent, somehow in their silence Jaehyun moves, slow, tugs Taeyong’s trousers off.

“I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

Taeyong stares, dry mouthed and skin flushed hot, at the way Jaehyun moves, at the way he keeps his eyes lowered, at the dusky red tinting his cheeks and his chest. He watches his fingers push, and it hurts, it’s not going to work, but he knows how to fix it. Clumsily he reaches for the tin of Vaseline on his nightstand.

“You sure?”

He nods.

And god, he’s not prepared for that push inside him, his heart pounding and his stomach twisting with nerves and excitement and he’s so unsure if he’s allowed to feel this way. He falls back against the bedding, and Jaehyun follows, his weight on one palm, dipping the pillows beside Taeyong. Dry mouthed and burning, shining, slick fingers sliding in and out of his body, tainted, wet sounds too loud in the silence of his bedroom, wet kisses against his neck.

He only makes a sound, an involuntary groan, when Jaehyun pulls his fingers out.

They’re still stuck there, still floating when Jaehyun undoes his trousers, entirely soundless when he slicks himself up, Taeyong is just floating. He knows it, the girth and the length, his palms know that part of Jaehyun’s body and he wonders, wonders and wonders how it would feel inside him. Would he feel each vein, the thick ridge of the head, would he feel everything?

He reminds himself to breathe and tries his best to calm his heart when Jaehyun moves closer on his knees, his palm sliding gently over the inside of his thigh. When he lowers himself again and his gaze flits to Taeyong’s face as if to be sure he still wants it, when that slick, warm flesh presses against him, when that thick ridge slips in slow and painful, when he buries himself in his body. Eyes open, so he can see how flushed Jaehyun’s skin is, how his hands tremble, how his lashes flutter and the sweat beads at his temple, how his skin catches the light, how he holds him, with that sure, sure grip, fingers pressing into his thighs, that beautiful, unassuming greed. He looks so young. He keeps his eyes open, even when it hurts, even when pleasure curls his toes, pleasure with a raw edge, his body still unaccustomed to being shared with another.

Muscle under glistening skin, hips rolling clumsily, wet kisses on his cheeks and his neck, all the motions of making love till Jaehyun takes shuddering breaths, his toes and his knees digging into the mattress, till he finishes, a strangled moan against his ear, something filling him up. It comes as a shock. That it’s over already, that they did this, and it’s over already.

Jaehyun shudders one last time, his face pressed to Taeyong’s sticky skin, fingertips still pressing hard into his sides.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Jaehyun breathes. He shifts a little to look at him. “You didn’t finish.”

“That’s alright,” Taeyong says, flushed to his ears, staring at the ceiling, oddly blank.

“Should I just do it like always?” Jaehyun says. Taeyong shakes his head, closes his eyes, distracted, learning the way Jaehyun is softening inside him.

“Hey,” Jaehyun murmurs. He’s nosing at his cheek. “Hey, you good? You okay?”

Taeyong smiles, nods. He feels a little bit jumbled up.

“We,” Jaehyun says softly. “We don’t have to do it again.”

Taeyong looks up at his worried face and smiles with all the warmth soft inside his chest. He holds him, cups his cheeks and kisses him softly, whispers to him, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, really, the words are just flowing till Jaehyun is pressing an embarrassed smile to his cheek.

He thinks he tells him how much he likes this, how perfect Jaehyun is in this moment, safe and sated in that moment, sticky and warm. Maybe he’s more than a little embarrassed, all limbs and sharp angles and bare, sticky skin, but he doesn’t really care. Maybe Jaehyun is blushing so hard he can’t look him in the eye, but that’s alright, he’s still nestled in Taeyong’s arms, still got his arms wrapped loosely around his body and his hair tickles Taeyong’s jaw. It’s alright, they still made love, and the sky didn’t fall, the world is still turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hi, how've you been? Hope you enjoy this update and thank you so so much for all the love I die a little every time a beautiful comment shows up thank you so much <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. I hope you enjoyed this. Let me know what you think :)


End file.
